


Deduce with Sherlock Holmes

by refuse_to_sink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Kid Fic, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 03:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9473795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refuse_to_sink/pseuds/refuse_to_sink
Summary: Sherlock somehow managed to land his own children’s TV show conducting science experiments (not that it was ever his hopes and aspirations in life) all while maintaining a drug addiction that was poorly hidden from the public eye.John Watson has a 10 year old daughter, Mina Watson, whose favourite show just happens to be ‘Deduce with Sherlock Holmes’ and when they land tickets to see the filming of Sherlock’s show all their lives changes from that minute without any of them knowing it at the time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't notice by the summary, this is AU territory galore! 
> 
> So is it like a fandom no-no to rewrite a fic I’ve already written for another fandom but adapt it for another fandom? Because if so, too bad. I wrote a fic like this for the Teen Wolf fandom but it got into my head about a year ago how well I’d love this as a Sherlock fic, changing quite a bit but the premise was the same and then I started writing this and wrote quite a bit of it a long time ago.
> 
> I’ve got a chunk of this fic written but it’s not yet finished, I was trying to finish it before posting it but I was lacking the inspiration to continue on. I feel like if I post it and it’s out there then I’ll be more focused on actually writing more.
> 
> Okay this is a slow burn (ish) Johnlock fic however, there will be a lot of focus on the friendship between Sherlock and Mina. It should be noted that John is not aware of these interactions, so if that’s going to annoy you for whatever reason, you’ve been warned.
> 
> This fic DOES talk about drug use so if that’s not for you, don’t read, although drug use is not prominent throughout the fic it does play a part.
> 
> There is a SLIGHT mention of Sherlock sleeping with other people, but that is not the main focus of the fic and is only near the beginning. 
> 
> I’ll add any other things I think people might want to know as I go.
> 
> The fic isn’t beta’d because I’m not cool and don’t know that many people in the fandom (I apparently am fandom adjacent when it comes to the Sherlock fandom).

John’s sitting in decent sized office, with a view outside to the busy streets of London. His old mate, Mike Stamford sat behind his desk, paperwork a mountain on the tabletop and a teaching skeleton in the corner, oddly with a Christmas hat on it, despite the fact it’s passed a respectable amount of time to still have Christmas decorations up.

“I’m surprised you’ve managed to stay away from London for so long,” Mike says, as he pushes his glasses up his pudgy face.

“If it were just me, I’d have been back here the second I invalided out,” John replies, drumming his fingers on the arm rest.

“Mina?”

“Mainly Mary,” John smiles, an unhappy smile, with a tilt of his head. “And Mina, I suppose. Mary wanted to raise her away from London and the big city living.”

“And now?”

“I feel as if I spend more time in London than not, every weekend or school holiday Mina wants to take the train down. She wants to go to this museum or that park. I can hardly keep up, and she’s only 10!”

“Just wait until she’s a teenager,” Mike grins cheekily.

“Don’t even joke about that,” John groans, rubbing his hand over his brow.

Mike laughs, grabbing his coffee mug, takes a sip of his cold coffee, then stretches back in his seat, looking at John.

“And you’re sure you want to move to London? Most parents do the opposite, move away to a small town, live in a house with a back garden and a quiet street for their kids to ride their bikes on.”

“I’m still debating it to be honest,” John sighs. “It’s not as if Mina has her heart set on staying there, in fact she’d love to move to London. Plus, it’s not as if she has a large group of friends, unfortunately. My main worry is her after school care, depending on the job and hours I work.”

Mike nods his head in understanding. Mike does understand, he has his own children, even if they are older than Mina now. Despite the fact that John and Mike went to university together, were flatmates and good friends back in the day, they grew apart, especially when John joined the army. Then, when John left the army, he never returned to London for any longer than a day or two at a time, instead settling down with Mary and having Mina. They don’t get to see each other nearly as often as they’d like.

“Well, you’re certainly not the first parent, nor will you be the last that has to worry about after school care and raising a kid in London. If you’re serious about it, I’ll keep my eyes open for jobs around Barts or even at some other clinics.”

John Smiles, sitting up straighter in his seat. “Ta Mike. Might as well keep my options open, yeah?”

“Of course.”

John and Mike head towards the canteen to get a fresh cup of coffee before Mike’s lunch break is over. They easily chat about their past, their glory days in uni, and how much alcohol they could hold back then and still manage on only a few hours sleep and still make it to class.

John forgot how busy a large hospital could actually be. He’s used to working in what is probably the smallest doctors office ever known to man in the Western World. It’s only him and one other doctor that works part time, spending the rest of her time in another doctor’s office in the next town over. The general surgery is attached to the old hospital, a hospital that looks more like an old house than any modern hospital actually looks these days. Though, John supposes, if one is interested in the romanticism the UK has to offer, the hospital is quite quaint. Basically, John is the resident full time GP doctor in his small town and knows almost all his patients by name. He rarely even has to look at the files of his patients, to remember what it was they were last in for, or what medication they’ll need a refill of.

Bart’s hospital though, it’s buzzing with people walking back and forth, going from one lab to another, pagers going off. There are young trainee doctors, eager to learn, carrying cups of coffee and half their weight in notes, making sure they’re learning everything there is to learn.

John misses the excitement. The unpredictability of working in a hospital, seeing a patient with a bizarre or unseen problem, trying to figure out how best to treat the patient, to actually face a challenge.

Working in the same doctor’s office for just over 10 years, it soon stops being new. But then again, sacrifices are to be made. He married Mary, who he loved deeply and she wanted to stay away from London, so who was John to deny that? Then, Mary died, and he was left alone with Mina, stuck in a small town. John was so grateful that it was the sort of town where no one hesitated to help him when he needed help raising a baby, but that didn’t change the fact that he was bored out of his mind.

Year after year, John contemplated moving, and year after year, he pushed the thought aside, until now.

John and Mike are making their way back towards Mike’s office, ready to say goodbye as John has to catch the train back home, in time to pick Mina up from school. Mike perks up, as he rummages around in one of his desk drawers.

“Mina wouldn’t happen to watch Deduce would she?” Mike asks.

“Deduce with Sherlock Holmes, you mean? I think she’s seen every episode at least twice,” John answers, flexing his hand around the head of his cane.

“Yeah?” Mike perks up, before giving a little triumphant ‘ah ha’ as he lifts an envelope out of his desk. “I have some tickets for the taping of one of his shows, if you’d be interested?”

“Really?” John asks, amazed, walking the last few inches to the desk to take the proffered envelope. “How’d you manage these?”

Mike laughs shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “I happen to know Sherlock Holmes, believe it or not. He seems to think that consistently sending me tickets to go see a taping of his show is a huge honour or something. It was, when the kids were young enough to care, but they’re too old now, so I always have them laying around. They might as well be put to good use.”

John whistles, looking the tickets over, before stuffing them in his pocket. “Wow, thanks Mike. I’m definitely winning best dad award, at least for a few weeks.”

“That’s the way to do it, bribe ‘em. And don’t worry about the job search, I’ll keep my ears to the ground and let you know when anything good pops up.”

John offers his hand in thanks once again, shaking Mike’s hand before he’s leaving Bart’s a lot more happy than he was going in.

He’s got some prospects for a new job and he’s got tickets to see the filming of Mina’s favourite show. John doesn’t know how many times he’s watched Sherlock’s face, sometimes adorned with his protection goggles as he makes things explode on screen.

**  
Mina is bouncing along beside John as they stroll home from school. John is holding Mina’s backpack in one hand, his cane in the other. Mina hops from one foot to the other and her action causes her lopsided blonde ponytail to bounce from side-to-side and her glasses slide down the bridge of her little nose.

“And Mrs Shaw gave us even more fractions homework, it’s not as if we’ve been doing it for the past two weeks or anything.”

John doesn’t try to suppress his grin, because Mina isn’t even looking at him as she talks, waving her arms around wildly. Sometimes, he swears his daughter is more than just 10 years old, the way she rolls her eyes and sighs like she’s a teenager.

“Well, some children need to do more than a few days of maths to understand fractions Mina.”

“I know that. And I tried to help Taylor, but he told me to go away and stop being annoying and then Mrs Shaw told me to do my own work.”

The way Mina’s face goes suddenly sad breaks John’s heart. John remembers Mina telling her that Taylor has been mean to her a few times and as much as he’d love to go talk some sense to that little boy, he knows there’s only so much you can do when children are being mean. The fact that Mina even wanted to help Taylor, despite the fact that he’s been mean to her warms John on the inside.

“Some people just don’t like getting help I suppose,” is John’s answer. He should know all about that.

“That’s silly,” Mina says as she runs up the two stairs to the front door, and waits for John to unlock it.

“Tell me about it kiddo. Go wash up, get started on your homework and I’ll sort out dinner.”

Mina doesn’t even complain, instead runs along to the bathroom to wash her hands, before she gets a snack and then opens up her backpack and starts her homework. John just hopes and prays that however old Mina gets, she’ll never complain about having to do homework, because he doesn’t know what he’d do if Mina threw a tantrum and decided that homework was beneath her and she’d much rather watch TV or go on the computer.

After dinner, John is putting the plates to soak in the sink, as Mina puts strawberries one by one in two bowls, before she loads hers up with heaps of cream, keeping John’s cream-free just how he likes it. She’s just about to sit in front of the TV, John sitting at the dinner table, he clears his throat, trying to get her attention. She completely ignores him.

“So I have some news,” John tries to get his daughters attention.

“Deduce with Sherlock Holmes is almost on!” Mina whines, despite the fact that it’s a repeat episode so she’s already seen it before.

“Well then, if you’re not interested, I guess I’ll just have to go to London by myself and watch a taping of Deduce with Sherlock Holmes all by myself. I’ll be ever so lonely,” John fake sighs, never taking his eyes off of the back of Mina’s head.

He sees the instant she freezes, whipping around as her eyes widen to stare at John.

“What?” she screeches, jumping off of the couch abandoning her strawberries on the end table.

“Oh?” John says, as if he’s bored, popping a strawberry in his mouth. “I thought you were busy.”

“Are you lying to me daddy?” Mina asks, putting her hands on her hips. And oh, does she ever act older than she actually is.

“Why would I lie to you pumpkin?”

“We’re really going to see Sherlock Holmes?!” she screeches again jumping up and down beside her father.

“We sure are.”

John cringes as she screams at the top of her lungs, wrapping her little arms around John’s neck. He can’t even remember the last time he’s seen her this excited about anything. He’s ever so grateful that Mike Stamford had those bloody tickets.

**  
Sherlock absolutely abhors being referred to as the ‘Modern Day, British Bill Nye the Science Guy.’ Sherlock is nothing like this Bill Nye fellow. He didn’t even know who Bill Nye was until he stupidly read an article about himself in some American magazine (the one and only time he’s read about himself).

First of all, Sherlock has never applied to be an astronaut at NASA, nor does he even have the slightest interest in anything to do with space.

Secondly, Sherlock absolutely did not start his ‘entertainment career’ doing sketch comedies. No one would ever accuse Sherlock Holmes of being a comedian. The thought alone makes Sherlock shudder.

There are probably loads more reasons why Sherlock is nothing like Bill Nye, and if you gave him enough time, he’d probably tell you all of them, with flow charts and graphs.

But, there is the similarity in that they both have a children’s TV show about science.

Although, and Sherlock thanks whoever he has to thank (mostly Janine his manager) that he doesn’t have a catchy, annoying theme song and he doesn’t have to film little introductory skits, riding around in a fake hot air balloon all the way up to space, or pretend he’s in a submarine under water — or something equally as idiotic.

No, Sherlock has leeway to film the experiments the way he wants to. He does wear a lab coat sometimes, should the experiment require it, like the chances of it exploding (which has happened more than once), but typically he gets to wear a suit — even if the executives from the network said it was too professional and stuffy for a children’s show.

To Janine, Kitty Riley his PR woman, and Bill Wiggins his assistant — not that Sherlock needed an assistant, but Wiggins was homeless, and Sherlock was feeling charitable because Wiggins has proven himself useful in the past — it was a miracle the show’s ratings were off the charts. Sherlock could have told them that it would be successful, but no one would listen to him until they got the reviews and numbers back.

See, Sherlock knows that children liked to be spoken to like they were adults, like they were in on the secrets all adults knew about. They liked having the experiment laid out before them, being told what ingredients to add and what would happen after everything was combined. They didn’t need shows about pink pigs, pop singers in wigs, or whatever other mind numbing TV shows were out there, that were in fact destroying children’s minds more than anything.

It was also a wonder that Sherlock even wanted to film a children’s TV show. It wasn’t like he was the most embracing of people. Instead Sherlock was brash, rude, and utterly obnoxious to just about every adult he has ever come into contact with — including his entourage. But Sherlock was surprisingly good with kids, not all kids mind you, but most. Well, the ones that wanted to learn, the ones that were excited about sciences or maths. Sherlock knew that it was children’s minds that needed to be nurtured and moulded into the intelligent — or as intelligent as they could get — thinking youth of the future.

The world needs less Katie Prices’ in the world and more Sir William Ramsay’s.

Sherlock would probably point out that the third way he was different from Bill Nye — although he couldn’t be sure of course, seeing as he’s never met the man — but he doubts very much that Bill Nye does cocaine.

Sherlock also doubts that Bill Nye’s face has been splashed all over the tabloids, hopping from one club to the next, and hanging out with Irene ‘The Woman’ Adler who owns one of the most exclusive, members only adult sex clubs.

Which leads to Sherlock’s current predicament. He’s on the verge of getting his show cancelled. Well, it’s already cancelled, though not officially, instead he’s going to be taking a ‘hiatus’ — or that’s what the network is saying. Sherlock knows that the network just doesn’t want the controversy that comes from a children’s TV show host, who goes out parting most nights, getting high and hanging around sex clubs with one of the most well known woman in London — all because she’s claimed to have slept with some of London’s royals (men and woman alike) and knows exactly what they like.

It’s all one enormous mistake, Sherlock has told the network, they’re going to regret the day they cancelled Sherlock’s show. It’s not like Sherlock needed them, they needed him.

It’s not as if Sherlock was actually addicted to cocaine or anything, he had it firmly under control.

**  
“Sherlock bloody Holmes, you better open this bloody door right now,” Kitty yells as she bangs on Sherlock’s dressing room door, a door that is very much locked.

Sherlock ignores the pounding on the door, knowing no one is going to get in, not when he’s locked it and stolen all the spare keys so that he now has the only one. He likes his peace and he hates anyone barging into his dressing room, telling him what he has going on for the day, or worse yet wanting to make idle chat.

He opens the neat Morocco leather case to reveal a hypodermic needle and cocaine nestled in the fabric, cocaine that costs more than a pretty penny, but he’s not about to inject himself with the knockoff cocaine sold on the streets. The perk of hanging around exclusive nightclubs in London, is that you meet the right people who are more than willing to keep the supply flowing for the right price.

Sherlock has gotten used to this over the years, rolling up the left sleeve of his shirt, tying the band around his arm, looking for a good vein, before he plunges the syringe in, injecting himself.

It’s not as if he needs the cocaine for confidence. No one would accuse Sherlock of lacking confidence, nor does he need it for anxiety.

Instead, he closes his eyes, tilting his head back on the arm of the leather couch, legs stretched out and feels the cocaine rush through his blood stream, taking effect straight away. His brain struts to slow down and not running a mile a minute without giving him a chance to just breath.

Not even when Sherlock goes to sleep does it feel like his brain powers down, it’s as if it’s never ending, but once Sherlock gets cocaine into his system, his brain finally slows down. He can stroll through his mind palace at a leisurely pace, he can organise what he needs to in there and he can delete what he doesn’t need anymore, making room for more important things. When he’s not on cocaine, it’s as if he’s running around his mind palace, running in and out of every room, trying to get as much information as he can, before he moves on to the next thing.

Pretty soon, Sherlock is completely able to block out the noise of the increasing banging on the door and he has no doubt that Bill has joined Kitty at the door. No, now he just ignores them, slouching further into the couch and relaxes for the last few minutes he has.

If Sherlock were a sentimental person, he’d probably want to savour the moment more — not the fact that he’s on cocaine, of course — the fact that this is the last time he’ll never be filming Deduce with Sherlock Holmes. He’s probably expected to thank the rest of the crew for all their help over the years, for all that they’ve done, all the time and effort.

Then again, if Sherlock were a sentimental person, he’d also be an entirely different person, the kind that probably doesn’t do cocaine, which means the show never would have been cancelled in the first place. So, he very much doubts the rest of the crew even want a thanks from him. Instead, they’d probably want to line up and have a chance to punch him in the face.

It’s only after a few minutes — and Sherlock knows it’s not hours, only because someone would have knocked the door down, making sure Sherlock isn’t laying dead in a puddle of his own vomit — that the persistent banging gets through to Sherlock’s mind palace and the voices of both Kitty and Wiggins.

“Sherlock, bloody hell open up already.”

Sherlock sighs, rolling off of the couch, straightening his suit shirt, before he opens the door with a loud huff. “What do you want? Shouldn’t you two be off somewhere kissing one person’s ass or another.”

“What are you on about Mr Holmes?” Wiggins asks, sometimes so formal, other times a right pain in the behind.

“We certainly know Ms Riley has been busy.”

“What are you talking about?” Kitty asks, trying not to shift nervously under Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, looking Kitty up and down. He notices the instant that she starts to fidget, being under the scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t even know why she would try and hide it, it doesn’t take a genius to figure these things out. “Convenient paparazzi shots and stories popping up about me lately, about my drug habit and other various past times.”

Kitty gapes, her face starting to flush from embarrassment. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply-”

“Please,” Sherlock scoffs, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “You’re almost out of a job now that the show is going off the air, you’re wary of what my prospects are, and if I’m not longer a ‘celebrity’ you’re certainly out of a job. You don’t want to be known as the woman who couldn’t spin a redemption arch story for Sherlock Holmes. No, you want to cut your losses and move on. You’re making money by directing the paparazzi to any of the night clubs I frequent, while simultaneously doing your best effort to line up future job prospects at some of the most popular magazine and newspaper companies in London. Just look at the state of your sleeves.”

“Listen here you little-” Kitty starts, stepping towards Sherlock, not that Sherlock is about to back down. He could hold Kitty away with his pinky finger.

“Though I don’t know how far you expect to get in the industry if it were known you would so easily turn on your clients,” Sherlock says nonchalantly.

Kitty looks as if she’s ready to attack, but then Janine appears around the corner grabbing Kitty and pushing her off in the direction she came from. “Sod off you two and let me speak to Sherlock,” Janine instructs.

Kitty huffs off swearing under her breath and Wiggins scurries off with a quick ‘Sorry Mr Holmes.’

Sherlock just smirks as Kitty scurries off. He never really liked the woman, but Janine had insisted that she was one of the best PR people in the business and one of the few that would actually agree to work with Sherlock Holmes, especially when everyone knew of his temperament. Not to mention it was so easy to work Kitty up into a tizzy and he does so get a thrill from doing it.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asks, glancing at Janine, the woman finally giving Sherlock her full attention now that the other two have disappeared.

“What do I want? What do I want? You’ve got some nerve Sherlock. You know you’re due on set in a few minutes and yet you spend your time antagonising your team.”  
**  
The taping of ‘Deduce with Sherlock Holmes’ is on a Saturday and John is just happy that he got someone to cover his shift at the surgery. Not like the surgery stays open all day on the weekend anyway. Besides, there have been more than a few times when there has been an emergency and it was past opening hours, that John was awoken to a knock on his door, someone asking for help. The joys of living in a small town and John being too kind to refuse a patient t his front door.

John and Mina wake up nice and early, catch the early train into London so that they can make a day of it. John takes Mina to the Rainforest Cafe because he’s a sucker and agreed to take her when she asked ever so sweetly. Today is a special day because he knows that ‘Deduce’ is her favourite show — and it’s not as if every time they come to London they eat at an expensive restaurant. Besides, John has to admit that it is kind of fun, eating at the Rainforest Cafe, much better than those stuffy restaurants that posh people eat at.

By the time they make it to the studio, show their tickets and are admitted into the main studio, Mina is practically bounding up and down in her seat. The seats are filled with an equal amount of children that are all excited and parents who are trying to calm their children, other parents are trying to look like they’re not about to die of boredom.

“All I can say is that Sherlock Holmes is one fit bloke,” John hears a woman behind him say.

John tries to hold the snort in, because he’s not at all surprised that someone would say that, especially as its probably some stay at home mother who is more than happy to spend her afternoons watching Deduce with Sherlock Holmes. John can objectively say that Sherlock Holmes is fit — John has seen the show after all. But it’s not something he’d gab on about with another parent, especially not at the taping of said show and especially not when his daughter is sitting right beside him.

“Too bad about that nasty drug habit though,” a different woman says.

John’s ears perk up.

“Not to mention him apparently running around with that high class prostitute.”

John ear’s definitely perk up and he turns his head to the side a little, so that he can see out of the corner of his eye the two women. They’re huddled close together, not that it means they’re keeping their voices down. They look like they’ve taken their outfit choices straight out of Desperate Scousewives — not that John watched that show mind you, but he had a girlfriend that did and he unfortunately has seen the one or two episodes — with too tight and too low cut shirts and heavy makeup.

John shakes his head, turning his head back forwards to check on Mina, but she’s busy bopping away to the music that’s playing, as she flips through one of the books she always carries with her wherever she goes.

“Oh you mean Irene Adler?” the second stay at home mom asks. “I hear she’s not a prostitute exactly, though she does own that high class sex club. More of an escort I hear.”

Stay at home mom one scoffs. “Same thing if you ask me.”

John is just about to turn around and tell them that they ought to keep their voices down, they are at a children’s event after all and talking about sex, sex clubs, and prostitutes is not on. He’s stopped from having to cause a scene though — especially in front of his daughter — when someone walks onto the set with a microphone, the music stopping.

“Good afternoon children and parents, who’s getting excited to see Sherlock Holmes?!” the presenter chirps into the microphone.

There’s a loud cheer and Mina has abandoned her book to sit up, clapping her hands together.

“Now the taping is about to begin, so we’re going to go over a few rules, and then it’s time for the show to begin!”

John tunes out the presenters instructions, having already turned off his phone — it’s not as if he’s the most popular man around anyway — and he’s tucking Mina’s book back into her little backpack so that they don’t leave it behind.

“Now one last thing,” the presenter announces and John just wants this thing to start already. “As this is the last ever taping of Deduce with Sherlock Holmes we thought we’d do a little giveaway. As you all know, your ticket came with seat numbers, and we’ve randomly selected some seat numbers, and if your number is called, you’ve won a meet and greet with Sherlock Holmes!”

Mina’s eyes pop wide open and she looks at John and John smiles back but hopes that she doesn’t get her hopes up too much. It’s more than enough that they even got the tickets in the first place. As the presenter goes through the seat numbers that have won, the last number called out is seat 42 and he hears Mina gasp.

“That’s my seat daddy!” she screeches, and John winces from how high her voice gets.

“That it is love,” John smiles at his daughter — and maybe today is going to be the best day for Mina and John is more than okay with that.

**  
John has seen Deduce with Sherlock Holmes on TV more times than he cares to admit out loud. He’s seen the reruns more times that he cares to admit, but he has to admit it’s a decent show. Better than decent actually. It’s a show that actually teachers children things and if that’s how Mina wants to spend her afternoons once she’s done her homework, then John certainly isn’t going to complain.

He can however, complain about some of the experiments Mina says she wants to try just because she’s seen it on Sherlock’s show. Especially the experiments that end up causing chaos in the kitchen, that had John cleaning the vinegar and baking soda mixture stuck to the ceiling and walls from Mina’s volcano for days afterwards.

John can also admit that Sherlock Holmes isn’t exactly the ugliest man to ever exist. That’s evident enough from the mutterings he’s heard form more than one mother at the taping of the show so far — though all seem to think he’s ‘sex on legs’ (their words, not John’s). But John isn’t about to deny that the description isn’t apt. John would also probably add that Sherlock seems like a right posh bloke — because who even wears a suit on a children’s show?

Sherlock’s eyes alone, even from a distance and not through a television screen is a wonder. Women and men have often complimented John on his eyes more than a few times over the years, but they absolutely do not hold a candle to Sherlock’s. If John were to even try and describe the colour, he’d be at a loss for words, but however you’d want to describe them, or whatever colour you’d want to call them, they’re surreal.

So, maybe John spends most of the time during the filming thinking about Sherlock and his eyes, and hit suit, and good looks — but he blames that on the fact that those stay at home mom were going on about it and so it’s only natural that, that’s where John’s mind would go.

John wouldn’t be able to tell you what experiments Sherlock was conducting, or what he was explaining — he could probably tell you the colour and pattern of Sherlock’s shirt, or how many buttons he has undone on his dress shirt and the colour of Sherlock’s laces.

So sue John. It’s been a while since he’s had sex and if he just happens to think that Mina’s TV idol is a fit bloke, well it’s not as if it matters any.

Of course, John should have remembered that they won a meet and greet after the taping of the show, especially with Mina up and out of her chair, grabbing John’s hand, ready to drag him down onto the stage so that they don’t miss their chance. Had John remembered that, he probably wouldn’t have spend so much time daydreaming about Sherlock and his good looks, because he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to look Sherlock directly in the eye now. John will let Mina do all the talking, he’ll snap a quick photo on his phone and that will be that.

**  
“Mina Watson, your biggest fan,” Mina beams, holding out her hand for Sherlock to shake. They were last in the line for the meet and greet, but Mina’s enthusiasm hasn’t faded one bit.

“I haven’t heard that one before,” a deep voice answers, eyeing the hand sceptically before he finally shakes it.

John can’t stop himself from thinking drug addict, and is it true? John feels those piercings eyes land on him, giving him a once over that feels like he’s being dissected. John is about to introduce himself, but then Mina is holding out a tattered piece of paper, asking Sherlock for an autograph.

Sherlock takes the paper, scribbles across it, handing it back to Mina, then turns his attention back to John.

“You were one of two fathers or male figures in the audience,” Sherlock announces.

John shakes his head, tilting his head a little. He can feel Mina staring up at him, interested in any conversation that comes out of Sherlock’s mouth. “You can’t possibly know that, the audience was rather large and not to mention you probably couldn’t see everyone with the bright lights.” John doesn’t point out the fact that he thinks Sherlock is probably right.

“I take it you’ve never heard of Simonides. While in Thessaly, Simonides was to write an ode to a boxer. When he was called out of the hall, the whole building collapses, however he was able to identify what person was sitting where, so that they would be able to be buried with their family. It’s quite simple actually, once you know what you’re doing.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing!” Mina says earnestly, her head tilted all the way up so that she can see Sherlock.

“It is quite interesting,” Sherlock concedes, nodding his head down to Mina. “So yes, I could see all of the audience and it’s even easier to notice that there were only two males in the audience, not including children. What I was getting at however, is that it seems that mothers generally bring their children here — for whatever reason that may be. I take it you were once married, possibly a widower, in fact I’d wager it’s the latter.”

“Now just hold on a minute —,” John says, stepping towards Sherlock and trying to shield Mina. Not that he’s about to strike Sherlock, but bringing up Mina’s mother is just not on.

“I say a windowed going by the ring on a necklace around young Mina’s neck there,” Sherlock says, stepping slightly to the side to point at the necklace around Mina’s neck, with a stunning gold wedding band around it. “Divorced is a possibility of course, though why give your daughter a ring that your wife left in a divorce, that would only serve to stir up bad memories for you. It’d be smarter to give her a photo, or something less sentimental to a day that’s supposed to be the happiest in a couples relationship. Of course you’d want your daughter to still have a relationship with the mother even after a divorce, but a ring? Not likely. However, if your wife died, it would cause you a lot of grief, but it wouldn’t pain you to see the ring around your daughters neck nearly as much as it would had you been left.”

John grips his cane, his free hand flexing into a fist, and then out of a fist again. “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are you little —”

Mina grabs her dads free hand, tugging on it. “But daddy, he’s right,” Mina interjects.

John glances down at his daughter, then glances back at Sherlock. He doesn’t miss the way Sherlock smirks, the smug bastard.

“I thought as much,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles.

“Not at all an appropriate conversation to bring up,” John finally says, getting his first complete sentence out to Sherlock without being interrupted.

“Ah,” though Sherlock doesn’t seem that bothered.

“Can I get my picture with you now?” Mina asks and that spurs John into action, getting his mobile out as Mina gets as close to Sherlock as she can, with a big grin on her face. Sherlock’s smile seems almost forced, like he doesn’t know how to smile, but it’s a smile nonetheless and Mina’s smile is the biggest he’s seen in a while. John quickly snaps the photo, and then he’s grabbing Mina’s hand and they’re off.

“Wait!” and Mina is digging her heels in, trying to turn around to see Sherlock. “What was the name of that man that remembered everything?”

“Simonides,” Sherlock answers.

“How do you spell that?” Mina asks, scrunching up her nose.

Sherlock sighs, but holds his hand out. “Give me that paper, I’ll write it down for you,” and takes the proffered paper that he autographed for Mina, turning it over and scribbling the name down.

“Thank you!” she beams, finally ready to leave the studio.

Mina waves goodbye to Sherlock as they’re walking away, a bounce in her step. The only reason John isn’t absolutely livid at Sherlock Holmes is because it doesn't seem to have bothered Mina one ounce, in fact she seems absolutely elated. John ignores the fact that Sherlock was spot on.

**  
Sherlock ducks out the back of the studio before Janine or the rest of his team finds him. He doesn’t want any farewells, he doesn’t want to have to say goodbye or thank you to any of the crew. Not because he’s sentimental, but because he finds it absolutely tedious and he has better things to do with his time.

He hails a taxi with ease, slipping into the back and orders to be taken to one of the most exclusive clubs in the heart of London. He spends the time on his mobile phone while trying to field calls and texts from his team asking where he’s gone off to. The last thing he needs is any of them trying to track him down because it would only serve to ruin his night.

Sherlock throws more than enough money at the cabbie when they pull up to the club. He turns up the collar of his Belstaff trying to hide his face from any photographers or want to be photographers hanging around outside the club. Fortunately, the bouncer knows who he is and doesn’t ask for ID or tell him to wait at the end of the line. He’s ushered inside of the club quickly and efficiently and once he’s inside he can shed his coat, like he’s shedding his skin and he instantly becomes relaxed like he hasn’t felt all day.

The club is dark and the music is loud enough that Sherlock can feel it in his bones and while he’s not the biggest dancer in the world — unless he’s had enough cocaine and alcohol in his bloodstream — he can appreciate the music. The club is built is in the vaults of one of the many West End theatres in London and resembles a Masonic Temple. The walls are exposed bricks, with tables and booths scattered throughout in the dim light, with candles scattered about. There’s a piano in one corner and old photos of past Freemason’s.

He gets to the bar area easy enough, people moving aside for him, as he orders a whiskey neat. Once he has his drinks in hand, he leans back against the bar, taking a large sip, his eyes scanning the room. It takes him less than ten-seconds to find the person he’s looking for, his body already thrumming with anticipation.

Sherlock pushes off of the bar, long strides taking him to the corner of the room where there’s a booth beside the piano. Sherlock can feel the eyes on his as he moves through the bar, but he doesn’t pay them any notice. His only focus is on the pair of dark eyes tracking him as Sherlock gets closer to him.

“Well look who showed up,” the man says, eyes lighting up as he looks Sherlock up and down in appreciation.

“Victor,” Sherlock says, voice low.

“Come to celebrate your last ever taping of that insipid show?” the dark skinned man asks, standing up out of the booth to step closer to Sherlock, getting into his personal space.

Sherlock allows it, actively pushing himself closer to the man slightly taller than him. “You know what I want.”

Victor laughs, a puff of breath hitting Sherlock’s neck, as Victor runs his mouth up Sherlock’s neck to this ear. Sherlock shivers when he feels the man’s beard tickle him. “All work and no play?”

“Both,” Sherlock pulls back, downing the last of his whiskey. He leans around Victor making sure the whole front of his body moves against Victor’s as he places his glass down onto the table. He sees Irene Adler sitting at the bar, her PA/lover sitting beside her, nibbling at her ear. Irene raises her glass, smirking at Sherlock. Sherlock nods his head in greeting and pulls back, grabbing Victor’s hand and leading him off to the toilets.

Sherlock just barely remembers heading into bathroom, hand sliding into Victor’s back pocket to grab the cocaine, before they’re both injecting, head falling back in bliss as it courses through their veins. From there it’s a blur of Victor pushing Sherlock into a stall, biting kisses and then Sherlock dropping to his knees and sucking Victor off. Victor doesn’t disappoint, doesn’t leave Sherlock hanging, hard in his designer trousers. Victor pushes Sherlock face first into the bathroom stall door, unbuckling Sherlock’s belt and slipping his hand into the boxers. Victor bites and sucks at Sherlock’s neck, as his hand jerks Sherlock off to completion and Sherlock cannot even be bothered to hide his moans into his sleeve — doesn't care if anyone that enters the bathroom hears them, this place is the definition of discretion and no one will say anything the minute they step out of the club.

Sherlock knows that he spent the rest of the night in the club, drinking and spending time with Victor and Irene because it beat going home to an empty apartment. Plus, with the drugs and alcohol in his system he’s actually having a good time, forgetting about any worries or annoyances in his life, and living in the moment.

Sherlock doesn’t know how he got home though.

**  
Sherlock doesn’t remember how he got home. He doesn’t remember how he was unable to even make it to the bed, couldn’t even make it to the couch. He doesn’t remember the fact that he just slid down the wall just inside his apartment, passed out, leaving the door unlocked.

Sherlock doesn’t realise that it’s a certain detective inspector named Lestrade — a detective inspector that is not exactly a friend but more than an acquaintance to Sherlock Holmes — that finds him just inside his apartment, covered in sweat and grime, the stench of alcohol wafting through his pores. Lestrade is the one that grabs Sherlock under his armpits and hauls him up, dragging his unconscious form to Sherlock’s bedroom, getting him on the bed. Lestrade is the one that strips Sherlock out of his trousers and sweaty dress shirt, leaving him in his boxers and covering him with the sheet, leaving the duvet at the end of the bed so that Sherlock doesn’t overheat. Lestrade is the one that grabs a glass of water, leaving it beside the bed for when Sherlock wakes up.

Lestrade is the one that drags a chair from in the kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom, sitting in the corner, falling asleep uncomfortably as he keeps an eye on Sherlock to make sure that he’s not sick throughout the night.

Lestrade is the one that pulls out his phone, dialling the familiar number that’s become number two on his speed dial.

Lestrade is the one that knows he’s not going to be forgiven for this anytime soon, but Lestrade doesn’t care. He’s had enough and he knows that sometimes, it’s just time to call in the big guns and hope for the best. Even if Sherlock never forgives Lestrade, if this saves him, than Lestrade will say it’s a job well done. It doesn’t matter that Lestrade may no longer get the help that Sherlock provides when he’s bored and is able to solve cases in under a minute from a scrap of evidence. As much as Lestrade may need Sherlock’s help, he cannot in good conscious watch a man wither away before his eyes. Should Sherlock never help Lestrade again, it’s a price Lestrade will pay for keeping Sherlock alive.

**  
“Yesterday was the best day of my life,” Mina says over breakfast. They’re finally back home, away from London, but Mina is still buzzing.

“I’m glad,” John says, flipping a pancake over as Mina grabs the milk out of the fridge.

“Sherlock was amazing, he’s so smart! I want to look up that guy he was talking about, I forget his name. The one that remembered everyone in the audience. Do you remember his name?”

“I can’t say that I do.” That was the last thing John was paying attention to when it came to their interaction with Sherlock. He’s still reeling a little about Sherlock bringing up Mary, especially in front of a little child. It’s not as if John doesn’t talk to Mina about Mary when she has questions, he never lies. He wants Mina to know about her mom, even if she was too young to really remember having Mary in her life.

“Good thing he wrote it down. Does that mean I can use your laptop later?”

“Only for a little while,” John does try and limit Mina’s time on the computer, but he’s not exactly going to deny her when she wants to do a little research, learn about something new. It’s not as if she’s playing dull games or anything.

John serves up the pancakes, small lemon-shaped bottle of lemon juice and sugar already on the table as toppings for the pancakes. He reminds Mina to go easy on the lemon otherwise it’ll be too sour and to definitely go easy on the sugar, because the last thing he needs is his daughter on a sugar high first thing in the morning, or a scolding from the local dentist.

As John is putting the dishes to soak in plastic basin in the sink, the house phone rings and Mina is too engrossed on the laptop to answer, so John dries his hands on the towel, throwing it over his shoulder and answers.

“‘ello?”

“Hello little brother.”

“Harry! This is a surprise.”

“Well you were in London and didn’t think to come see me, so I thought I’d call you.”

Well, fair point to Harry. But in John’s defence, their day was pretty packed, with having lunch at The Rainforest Cafe to the taping of Deduce with Sherlock Holmes and then they were bumbling back onto the train to head home, Mina falling asleep within minutes of the train leaving the station. Plus, it’s not as if John and Harry are the best of friends and siblings. Harry’s alcohol addiction, although in the past for the last couple years is still a sore spot between them.

“Busy day,” John huffs, pulling out a kitchen chair so he can sit down.

“How was it? How loudly did Mina squeal?”

John does laugh that time and Mina looks up from the laptop to look at her dad, before she’s once again engrossed by the laptop in front of her. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Not to mention we won a meet and greet.”

“You what?” Harry asks surprised.

“We won a meet and greet, apparently something they do after the taping.”

“Mina must have just about died.”

“Tell me about it. And I nearly punched Sherlock Holmes.”

“You what?” Harry asks in disbelief.

John once again looks at Mina, but she really is engrossed in the laptop, her glasses crooked on her face but she doesn’t even notice. “I nearly punched the git. He brought up Mary right in front of Mina.”

“How the hell would he know about Mary?”

“He said something about the necklace Mina wears, with Mary’s wedding ring on it. Then said he guessed she must be dead and not have left me and went on some long tirade.”

“Bloody hell. He must have been high.”

“What?” John asks surprised, he gets up from the chair and moves into the hallway away from Mina. “He really is a drug addict? I heard some mothers talking about it before the taping started, but I thought they were just gossiping.”

“John, it’s all over the media, how do you not know this?” Harry asks exasperated.

“Does it look like I have time, or even the inclination to read the rags?”

“Well I do, you know me, I love a bit of gossip. Apparently he’s a coke addict, or alcohol addict, or maybe both, I don’t know but everyone knows he’s some sort of addict. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got high while taping his show. Probably why it’s getting cancelled.”

“I always thought it was because he wanted it to end,” John answers, though if he’s being honest it’s not like he looked much into why Deduce with Sherlock Holmes was ending.

“Please,” Harry scoffs. “That’s probably just to keep his image up. The last thing his PR team would want, is for network to say they’re cancelling a show because their lead is an addict. That wouldn’t look good on Sherlock or on a children’s network.”

“I suppose,” John concedes. “At least Mina had a good time, and I don’t think she knows about the drug thing.”

“Well just keep it that way yeah? Let her stick to the show and not the tabloids.”

“Thanks for the wonderful parenting tip,” John quips rolling his eyes even though his sister can’t see him.

“All right you prat,” Harry laugh. “I better get going, I just wanted to see how you and Mina got on. I better see you two soon.”

“You know how to get to our house,” John points out.

“Leave London for a town where when I get to the town centre, I can see every store you lot have to offer and get around said town centre in five minutes? You’re having a laugh.”

“It’s calm.”

“You guys don’t even have brand name stores. It’s all mom and pop shops. You hate it and you know it.”

“Just get your arse here sometime if you’d like to see your niece,” John says, because he knows Harry always gives him a hard time about where he lives. They both love London.

“Fine,” Harry grumbles before saying goodbye.

So, it’s true that Sherlock is a drug addict. Well, as true as a tabloid can get, John supposes. He knows that rags aren’t always true, they’re hardly ever true actually, but he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock. That’s the excuse that John has really, for what Sherlock said, he must have been high. He’s just glad that Mina is still too young to understand about addiction and Sherlock is still her hero.  
**  
Sherlock is awoken by the steady rhythm of a car being driven. What wakes him up actually, is that the car is slowing down and then turning, obviously coming off of the motorway. Which motorway, Sherlock isn’t quite sure yet, he’s sprawled out on the backseat of the car and the only thing he can see is the grey interior of the car roof.

It takes him a little longer than he’d care to admit before he realises that there’s someone sitting on the opposite seating, this person’s back to the driver, perfectly put together in his three piece suit, perched to look causal — although he’s anything but — on the plush black leather seat.

It’s ironic really, Sherlock thinks, that his brother is so ‘concerned’ for him and his apparent drug problem, yet his brother has no qualms about drugging him, then getting one of his lackeys to drag Sherlock’s unconscious form into car. Sherlock shouldn’t have drunk the damn tea, but he was coming down from a high and the tea was perched on the bedside table and he didn’t even bother to think where it came from, or more specifically whom it came from.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock sits up in the seat properly, hands going down his shirt to get rid of the wrinkles. Not only was he drugged, but his brother got his lackeys to dress him in one of his bespoke suits.

“Brother,” Mycroft says in a cordial tone, as if nothing is wrong, as if it’s perfectly normal to drug your brother, kidnap him, and drive him off to God knows where — well, Sherlock knows where.

“Dorset, really?”

“Yes -”

“Sherborne to be exact. Old Castle rehabilitation centre, as if that’s really necessary?”

“Yes Sherlock. They’re holding a room there, awaiting your arrival. Enough is enough wouldn’t you say?” Mycroft answers, his two hands are perched onto of his umbrella, that’s resting between his legs.

Sherlock doesn’t deign to answer, out of the corner of his eye he can see that they’ve finally rolled into Sherborne, about to stop at a stoplight. Mycroft obviously underestimated Sherlock and the amount of drugs needed to sedate Sherlock until they finally arrived at the centre, because in the blink of an eye Sherlock’s hand is popping up the lock on the door, opening it and out of the car before Mycroft can shout after him.

Now, Sherlock has never been to Sherborne, never had a reason to, but it’s not as if it’s a giant city, it’s a market town for Gods sake. He could probably get around the town centre in under ten minutes and deduced everything there is to know about this place and its residents. His eyes quickly scan his surroundings before he ducks through some trees and bushes and finds himself on what looks like a large empty school field. He doesn’t care if Mycroft calls it fleeing, as long as he’s far away from his twat of a brother, Sherlock is happy.

Naturally, he knows that Mycroft is hot on his heels. Sherlock can hear the sigh emanating from his brother, along with the familiar rustle of leaves and branches being pushed aside. Sherlock is just surprised that Mycroft would even risk getting himself dirty, it’s a testament to how much he wants Sherlock to enter rehab — not that it warms Sherlock’s heart one iota.

“You’ve tried to force me before Mycroft, you know how well that turned out,” Sherlock threatens, not slowing his pace not even bothering to turn around, he knows his brother will hear him.

“At least back then you had money brother mine,” Mycroft replies. He’s footsteps are becoming quicker as he moves to catch up to Sherlock. Sherlock doubts that Mycroft can even run let alone keep up a brisk walk. “You have yet to have access to your trust fund, as you know, mummy won’t allow it.”

Sherlock stops on the spot, spinning around so that he’s face-to-face with his brother. “Because she has you whispering in her ear like the little devil that you are.”

Mycroft doesn’t back down as his younger brother gets in his face. Mycroft has dealt with a belligerent Sherlock many times before. “As I was saying, you have yet to gain access to your trust fund, despite your age. You have simply blown through the majority of the money you’ve made from the show between drugs, alcohol, sex, and taxes. Not to mention the flat you rent in Regent’s Park for your little ‘parties,’” Mycroft making a face as he mentions the parties that Sherlock throws. They are anything but respectable parties.

“Don’t look down at me brother, just because you wouldn’t know a good time unless it came in the form of a pudding,” Sherlock sneers.

“If you’d like access to your inheritance like you should have years ago Sherlock, you will enter rehab, you will complete the program and you will show mummy that you’re a responsible adult,” Mycroft answers, ignoring Sherlock’s attempt to start a fight about Mycroft’s weight. “I’ll ensure you never work with anyone from New Scotland Yard or any other police station in London, I know you won’t be leaving London anytime soon and I’ll have no qualms about making your life an absolute living hell in any way that I can should you not do as your asked.”

“I want a single room, no flatmate, with a view of the river. I want my violin, my cellphone, my laptop and my science equipment. The minute they make me try to talk in group therapy, I swear I will burn the place down without a care for who is in there.”

Sherlock knows he just has to get sober get access to his inheritance so he doesn’t have to worry about money, if he really has lost the majority of his money from the show and then he can focus on other things. He can go back to working on cases like he used to back in the day and get high on a schedule so that it doesn’t raise any alarms. He knows how to trick his brother and he’ll never stop doing so.

“A single room with a view can easily be arranged. However you are unable to have any electronics. The violin and some science equipment can be arranged at a later date.”

“It’s all or nothing, those are my terms.”

They’re still standing toe-to-toe, neither of them willing to look away first, lest they lose. Mycroft tilts his head as if he’s considering and Sherlock is breathing heavily, trying to control himself.

Sherlock thinks he’s about to win, that Mycroft is going to concede to his terms, giving Sherlock enough time to figure out how to get out just how long he’ll have to suffer in this hell hole.

“Sherlock Holmes?” a timid voice says and it startles both men enough to take a step back, both turning this heads to the side and down to see where the voice came from.

Sherlock’s eyes look down at the girl, eyes moving from her head to her toe, taking in her school uniform, when his eyes catch on the necklace around her neck, with the wedding band on it and then he remembers.

‘Came to the last ever taping of the show. Was with her dad, the one with the cane. Dead mother. Named Mina.’

“Mina.”

The little girls face lights up like Sherlock just pulled a rabbit out of a hat or something equally as silly but no less fascinating to a child.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in London?” Mina asks, shuffling her feet closer to Sherlock.

“I’m apparently meant to enter rehab,” Sherlock answers truthfully and he can see Mycroft sigh and shake his head beside him. There’s no use to lying though, Sherlock thinks.

Mina nods her head in understanding, as if she truly understands what addiction is and what cocaine and partying really consists of.

“Mina is it?” Mycroft asks, butting in the conversation. It’s the nicest, softest Sherlock has ever heard Mycroft speak. In all fairness, Sherlock can’t remember the last time Mycroft ever spoke to a child. “Where is your guardian? I take it school is out and you’re on your way home?”

Mina swings her backpack off of her back and Sherlock is startled to see a ‘Deduce with Sherlock Holmes’ sticker on her bag, starting to fade from having been stuck on there for so long. She pulls out a mobile phone showing Mycroft. “Daddy is at work, but it’s a short walk home and I normally walk home with one of the girls and her mum even though we’re not really friends and everyone knows everyone here, so I send him a message as soon as I get to Mrs. Willow’s.”

“Of course,” Mycroft nods his head.

“Well, I better get home before Mrs. Willows is wondering where I am,” Mina slings the backpack back on her back, eyes settling back on Sherlock. “I hope you get better Sherlock.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” is Sherlock’s answer.

“Daddy says that’s what all addicts say.”

Sherlock doesn’t miss the huff of laughter that escapes Mycroft before he can control himself. So apparently Mina does know a thing or two about addiction, even if it is still an abstract concept to her.

“Bye!” Mina waves, as she heads off towards all the other children now starting to scatter out the school.

“Off to Old Castle it is,” Mycroft says, bringing the conversation back to the topic at hand before they were interrupted.

**  
John gets home a little later then he meant to, due to a worrisome mother with a newborn baby and he was much too polite to shoo her out the door and tell her to stop fretting. Fortunately Mrs Willow, their next-door neighbour in their terraced house doesn’t mind popping over and looking after Mina. It’s just Mrs Willow and her husband, now that they’re elderly and their children have moved out, so Mrs Willow enjoys spending time with Mina.

And if Mrs Willow is busy, there’s usually someone else that is willing to look after Mina until John gets home and they’re all people John trusts. He supposes that’s what happens when you live in a small town, in a 20th century stone terrace house. John and Mina live in the end terrace house, with Mrs Willow and her husband living in the middle, while Mr Chips lives on his own in the end terrace and although a brusque man, a retired teacher at the preparatory school Mina goes to, Mina gets along with him very well, despite the dry sense of humour Mr Chips has, that John is sure Mina doesn’t quite understand yet, being so young and he even helps her with her homework when she needs it.

Mina’s schoolbooks and notebook are stacked on the kitchen table, her homework clearly already done, as she sits in front of the TV one of her recreational books open the last page she was reading, but her eyes are glued on the television. Deduce with Sherlock Holmes is on. John shakes his head ruefully, it’s not as if it’s even a new episode, John remembers watching this one a few months ago, but Mina is just as entranced as she was the first time they watched the episode.

John watches the Sherlock Holmes on the screen and tries to reconcile it with the man they met at the taping, the drug addict. Sherlock on the television looks so professional, he has his customary dark suit on, a pair of safety goggles perched onto of his unruly curly hair, as he explains the experiment, and gives his hypothesis and null hypothesis. The Sherlock they saw at the taping was no less efficient when he was filming, but the man they met afterwards almost seemed like an entirely different man. Fortunately, Mina is still too young to realise that Sherlock is a drug addict and isn’t in the pre-teen stage yet where she’s reading gossip magazines, to even learn about Sherlock’s addiction. Though John can’t even picture Mina in her teen years wanting to read those types of magazines when there are so many other unread books out there that are on her ‘to read’ list.

Although, John is ashamed to admit that he was one of those people that stooped to the level of googling Sherlock Holmes and was bombarded with article after article and multiple pictures of Sherlock coming out of some of the most exclusive clubs in London, even as he tries to shield his face from the paparazzi. There were captions that read under Sherlock’s photo ‘Sherlock blows for blow? Read all about it in the article below!’ and other various nasty headlines that are meant to grab people’s attentions. They certainly grabbed John’s attention and he spent most of his lunch break reading some of the articles that he found. Now, John can admit that he knows probably more than half of them aren’t true, but some of it has to be true, doesn’t it?

At least Mina wasn’t put off by Sherlock’s behaviour at the meet and greet and is still apparently in love with him. As long as she only focuses on the show and not Sherlock’s personal life, John thinks Mina will be just fine. Until she moves on to the next new big thing, but then hopefully by then Sherlock will be a thing of their past.

**  
Sherlock is ushered to his room by one of the orderlies, Mycroft hot on their heels. The place just exudes decadence and Sherlock already knows that this is costing more than most people’s rent in London for a month, just for one week.

The rehab is in an old estate manor that probably once belonged to some Earl or other nobility, that lies along the River Yeo. The front reception room is bathed in dark wooden floors, with dark leather seating and a large wood burning fireplace with a marble hearth. There are other little antiques placed around the room for decoration, but Sherlock rather thinks that those could be nicked and used to buy drugs — you can’t put anything past an addict.

They even passed a room that looks eerily similar to the club that Mycroft insists on spending all his time in. The one where you can’t bloody speak and though Sherlock agrees that most of the English population should keep their mouths shut, Mycroft’s club is just too pretentious for Sherlock. Despite the fact that Sherlock, to the average British person, screams pretentious.

The orderly stops outside a closed door — Sherlock figures is his new bedroom — when the door beside him opens up and a man steps out, dressed in a cardigan and corduroy trousers, he startles when he sees he’s not alone in the hallway.

“Oh hello there, you must be new. I’m Henry Knight,” the man introduces himself, looking between Sherlock and Mycroft, apparently not sure who is the new patient, or if they both are.

“We’re allowed cigarettes in here?” Sherlock asks, eyes zeroing in on the packet of Amber Leaf tobacco in Henry’s hand.

“Yes, although it’s not recommended,” the orderly answers. “Research has shown though, that outright banning tobacco actually has negative effects on patients.”

“I try to only have one or two a day,” Henry smiles, shaking the loose leaf tobacco in front of him. “It’s comforting even just rolling them.”

“You have night terrors,” Sherlock says looking at Henry, eyes narrowing.

“Mr Homes, we do not talk about patients addictions or symptoms unless they are comfortable doing so in group therapy,” the orderly says, opening the door to Sherlock’s new bedroom, trying to usher him in.

“My father was murdered in Dewer’s Hollow in Dartmoor when I was younger, I know it was a hound but no one would believe me. They think I’ve just imagined it all,” Henry explains, his eyes darting around the hallway, as if he’s expecting to be dragged away for explaining his delusion.

“Are you sure you’re not just hallucinating and dreaming up this fiction, especially with that nasty little addiction to your prescription pills,” Sherlock asks, sliding his hand into his coat pocket, appearing as casual as can be, while laying someone bare.

“I got addicted to the pills after I witnessed my father’s murder. I know I wasn’t hallucinating,” and with that Henry is walking down the hallway in the direction that Sherlock just came from.

“Was that really necessary Sherlock?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock shrugs, entering in to his new bedroom, ignoring his brother. They both know that Sherlock is going to deduce every person he comes by in this place and there’s nothing Mycroft can do to stop him. Hell, Mycroft is probably even paying above the fees for this place, just so they won’t kick Sherlock out for the ruckus he is undoubtably going to cause.

Sherlock’s bedroom is mercifully a single room, with a double bed and an en suite bathroom. There’s a wooden desk just underneath the window and just as Sherlock requested, the window has a view out on to the river which is several yards away. On the bed is Sherlock’s Bottega Veneta’s suitcase in black with his signature criss-crossed leather on the front, inside Sherlock knows, is all the clothes he could possibly need while here, packed by Mycroft’s assistant. Beside the designer suitcase is a violin case, and he knows inside is his vintage violin given to him by his mother, which was made in the 1800’s. True to his word, Mycroft is apparently trying to keep Sherlock happy so that he’ll complete the program.

“I think you’ll see that I have tried to provide everything you will need to settle in,” Mycroft announces as he walks throughout the room, giving it a perfunctory once over to make sure it’s up to his standards. “Some of your lab equipment will be arriving shortly, unfortunately you will not have everything you want, for safety reasons of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock sneers, he puts the violin case on the table, gently, so as not to scratch it. He then throws the suitcase not he floor, as if the suitcase doesn’t cost over £2000, before he flops down on his back, hands folded over his stomach, effectively dismissing his brother.

“Very well,” Mycroft sighs, realising that he’s been dismissed. Mycroft doesn’t bother saying goodbye, before he’s out the door and leaving his brother in Sherlock’s version of hell on earth.

**  
It’s been three days since Sherlock entered the rehab and it’s been absolutely horrendous. His body going from being accustomed to regular injections of cocaine to having none in the period of 72 hours is wreaking havoc on his body. Even when Sherlock cut out cocaine from his life on his own for a period of time, he never did it cold turkey. He was always smart enough to wean himself off of it, until his body could function properly without getting any symptoms. Of course, that never lasted long and within a few weeks or even days, he was back to injecting.

He goes from being too hot, clammy and sweaty, to being too cold, his body shivering from the sweat cooling on the nape of his neck and down his back. His dark, mop of curls is flattened against his head, slick with sweat and ratty, but he can’t be bothered to shower and wash it. In a matter of hours, he’ll be back to sweating and shivering again. His body aches as if he’s run a marathon and not just been lounging around his room, keeping away from the other patients and staff.

Sherlock even tried to run some small experiments but every time he tried to get a new specimen on a slide, his hand would shake uncontrollably and he ended up dropping the specimen too many times. Eventually he got frustrated enough that he threw the slide against the wall, cursing it and flopping back down on to the bed. One of the orderlies came running in to the room when he heard the crash, but Sherlock ignored him and the glass was cleaned up quickly and effectively. He goes from bouts of sleeping for hours on end — something he actively tries to avoid — to begin awake for just as long.

By the end of the third day, Sherlock is finally feeling marginally better. He’s showered, washed his hair and back in his suit trousers and suit jacket, with a button up shirt underneath. He hasn’t been out of some form of pyjama’s since he first got here and changed, too melancholic, or lethargic to care. Of course, even though he’s feeling better, he has yet to agree to go to a group meeting and fortunately none of the staff have pestered him to attend (irritably, he knows that he has to thank Mycroft for that).

Just because the staff haven’t pestered him about going to group therapy, doesn’t mean he’s hasn’t already made an enemy out of many of them already. Sarah, the head doctor of the centre has already been privy to what it’s like to be deduced by Sherlock.

Sherlock already deduced that she’s in a new relationship, although the divorce hasn’t been finalised yet (hers or her new boyfriends). Sarah apparently has had a lifetime of dealing with addicts though, because she merely blinks at Sherlock’s deductions, before she’s finishing up her rounds with the other patients. Some of the other doctors and nurses haven’t been so calm though. Sherlock has made at least three flee away in anger, tears, on one occasion even both.

But, Sherlock is finally feeling a little better and decides that it’s time to actually get through an experiment. It’s a simple enough experiment, but it’s better than going to the arts and crafts group going on just down the hallway. He could have gone to the music room, where there’s a large piano, some other instruments and music, with large comfy leather seats for people to relax in. Despite what people might think though, the fact that he loves to hear his own voice, when he plays violin, it’s only for himself, only so that he can concentrate, work out whatever it is going on in his head. He’s had years of having to play the violin in front of people, putting on a performance, all because mummy wanted it. He swore he wouldn’t be made to perform any longer.

He managed to slip outside — not that he was barred from leaving the estate as the grounds all around the estate are part of the centre and it’s not a prison so there are no guards scouting for runners — to collect some the water from the River Yeo in small glass vials. He rushes back inside once it starts to drizzle, having left his coat and scarf in his room, but not before he manages to collect some of the rain water in a vial, careful to label which vial contains which water.

Sherlock has just finished preparing the wet mount to slide under the microscope when he hears a knock on the window. The only reasons he’s not irritated that he’s been distracted is that no sane person would be knocking on the window, it just doesn’t make sense, so it must be interesting. Of course, it could be one of the patients in need of a fix, hallucinating, or something equally stupid and if that is the case, then Sherlock will absolutely be livid.

He snaps his head up from the microscope, to look out the window just in front him, but doesn’t see anyone. Curious, he stands up and leans over the table, to peer out the window, when he sees what caused the noise. Curious, indeed.

He opens the latch of the window, and peers down at the little girl in her school uniform and her light blue rain mac on, with the hood covering her head to shield her from the drizzle of rain.

“Mina.”

“Let me in,” the girl demands, her small hands gripping the edge of the window sill, trying to hoist herself up.

“What are you doing here?” and normally, Sherlock wouldn’t need to ask such an idiotic question, but he really is curious as to what the little girl is doing here and more to the point how? Before Sherlock knows it, his large hands are grasping the little girls arm and hoisting her up as she swings her legs over the window sill, mindful of the microscope. She drops down on to the floor, shaking off the water droplets on her rain mac.

“I’m here to visit you,” Mina says rolling her eyes.

“How did you know where to find me?” Sherlock closes the window so that his desk or microscope don’t get wet. When he turns around, Mina has already shucked out of her raincoat, hanging it on the bed knob at the end of the bed.

“When I saw you and that scary man talking the other day, you said you wanted a room with a view of the river. I peeked in some of the other rooms along the river, but then I saw your curls bent over the table and I just knew it was you!”

Sherlock is more surprised at the fact that Mina not only remembered what he said a few days ago to Mycroft, but that she managed to get here and find Sherlock, all without being caught. Curiouser and curiouser. “That’s very smart of you to remember,” Sherlock says before he even realised he’s opened his mouth.

Mina just beams, pleased with herself. “I brought sweets,” Mina rummages through her schoolbag — the same one that still has a Deduce with Sherlock Holmes patch on it — and comes out with a bag of Jelly Babies.

Sherlock takes the proffered bag of candies, tearing open into them and popping one in his mouth. He’s always been a sucker for sweets. “What are you really doing here?” he asks in-between mouthfuls.

“I really am here to visit you,” Mina looks around the small room, her eyes landing on the microscope. She steps around Sherlock and leans against the table to try and see what’s on the slide, without actually looking in the ocular lens. “What are you working on? Is it an experiment?” she asks excitedly.

Sherlock pops another Jelly Baby in his mouth, tossing the bag down on the table beside his microscope and fiddles with the slide. “I’m doing an experiment on the river water here.”

“What for?”

“I’m comparing it to the water in London. I’ve already tested the water from the Thames. I posted it on my website already. I don’t have access to my computer but I remember the results.”

Mina looks up at Sherlock, her glasses slipping down he nose. “Because it makes more sense to compare it with something else right?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock smiles. “Would you like to look?”

Mina nods her head enthusiastically. “May I?”

Sherlock pulls the chair out, so that Mina can jump up on the chair. She sits on her knees, her legs folded underneath her so that she’s tall enough to look into the lens. Sherlock fiddles with the knobs on the microscope, asking Mina if it’s in focus yet.

“I can see things moving around in there!” Mina exclaims.

Sherlock hums. “That would be the small living organisms in the water.”

“Wow, but you can never see them with your own eye can you?”

When Mina takes her eye away from the microscope, Sherlock swoops in, looking for himself as he explains about the water and what the little organisms are. He goes into a long winded discussions and when he takes his eye away from the microscope, he would have expected Mina to have gotten bored and wandered off somewhere else. Instead she’s leaning over the table, watching Sherlock intently.

Mina looks out the window sadly. “I better get going. Can I come back and see how the experiment ended?”

Sherlock accepts the last Jelly Baby from Mina, having ate more than half the bag himself. “Maybe.”

Mina smiles as if she’s used to hearing the word maybe, and getting her way. She puts her rain mac back on, sliding her arms through the straps of her backpack. It’s stopped raining, so she leaves her hood down. Sherlock opens the window, and helps hoist Mina up, so that she’s sitting on the windowsill, before she’s sliding down the other side, her feet hitting the wet grass.

“Bye!” she whispers, as if someone outside is going to hear her. Fortunately, this side of the building has generally been quite since the river is a little ways away and there’s not much to see or do. The garden and sports area is on the other side of the grounds.

Sherlock watches as Mina disappears around the corner of the building, before he shuts and locks the window. He goes back to his microscope, reorganising all the vials of water, his hand absently going towards the Jelly Babies pack, before he remembers that it’s empty. He dumps it in the bin, and decides to instead play the violin.

He starts to play one of his own pieces, deep in thought. He must admit it’s the least bored he's been since he got here. He doesn’t know whether to put it down to the fact that he finally started an experiment, or whether Mina helped alleviate his boredom. He stubbornly puts it down to the experiment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not beta'd so, sorry for any mistakes.

John is a little more than surprised that he doesn’t hear the sound of the TV and Sherlock’s voice wafting towards the door as he steps in the house after work. He’s so used to hearing the TV on and having Deduce with Sherlock Holmes in the background and yet the house is blissfully silent. John would almost think that Mina is at Mrs Willow’s house, probably baking or something — but he hears some noise coming from the reception room.

Mrs Willow’s is sitting in the recliner, engrossed in a Sudoku puzzle, and Mina is sitting on the floor with John’s laptop on the coffee table. She has a notepad beside her, her little head looking from the laptop to the notepad, jotting down something.

“Oh John dear, you’re home,” Mrs Willow’s smiles, looking up from her puzzle. She shuts the puzzle book, leaving the pencil in it to mark which page she was working on, standing up from the recliner.

“Afternoon Edith, thanks again for looking after the little one,” John says nodding his head towards Mina.

“Oh not a problem dear, not a problem at all,” Edith pats John on the shoulder, heading towards the door. “Goodbye Mina love.”

Mina’s grumbles a goodbye under her breath, barely paying attention to what’s going on around her. Mrs Willow tuts, but she’s smiling so she’s not too upset about being ignored and then she’s out the door leaving John with his daughter.

He ambles over to where Mina is sitting cross-legged on the ground, resting his cane against the couch behind her and sits down. He frowns when he sees her on a website that looks very technical. It has a dark background, with what looks like the skyline of London and when he leans in a little closer, squinting, he sees that she’s looking at pollution rates in London. What on earth? John thinks.

“Mina, what are you doing?”

Mina sighs like it’s the greatest effort int he world to pause what she’s doing for more than two-seconds to talk to her father. She puts down the pencil beside her notebook, turning around to look at her father. “I’m looking at the pollution rates in the Thames.”

“I can see that,” John says nodding his head. “I suppose I should ask why are you looking at pollution rates in the Thames?”

“Why not?” Mina shrugs, turning back around to the face the computer.

Oh the joys of having a daughter, John muses. He shakes his head, laughing to himself. In the grand scheme of things, Mina looking at the pollution rates in London is hardly the worst thing she could be doing with her time. It beats her watching some mindless program, or playing some mindless game on the Internet. If this is what interests Mina, then so be it.

John leaves Mina to her and her notes, going to wash up before he starts dinner. It’s almost a bit weird for John to be making dinner and not hear Sherlock’s voice in the background as he cooks. He’s become so accustomed to it, that he has to turn the radio on in the kitchen to the first station that doesn’t crackle, just to have some background noise.

During dinner, John’s famous honey garlic chicken —famous in that he actually looked up a recipe online on a cooking blog, just to have different meal ideas instead of feeding Mina frozen meals all the time — Mina manages to stun John.

“I joined the science club after school.”

John finishes swallowing his piece of chicken, looking at Mina, stunned. It’s not that Mina is necessarily shy, she’s just more introverted and doesn’t have many friends. She takes longer to warm up to people and would rather have one good friend then loads of not so great friends. Which means that Mina hardly ever participates in any after school activities, despite John’s gentle nudging. He knew sports were always going to be out, she had no interest.

Science though, John could see his little Mina interested in a science club.

“Really? That sounds right up your alley,” John grins.

Mina nods, pushing her peas to the side, rolling her eyes when John gives her a stern look.

“It’s Tuesdays and Thursday’s after school, which means Mrs Willow’s won’t have to look after me.”

“I still expect you to know when you’re finished at the science club after school, so that either I can pick you up if you finish before I’m done work, or have Mrs Willows pick you up.”

Mina nods her head, eating a few peas so that her dad can see she has eaten some and abandons the rest.

**  
Of course, John has no idea that Mina hasn’t actually joined the science club at school.  
Instead, she’ll be going to the rehab centre to see Sherlock, so long as Sherlock keeps letting her in.

It’s not that it makes John a bad parent per se. He knows there’s a science club after school, along with many other clubs, Mina just hasn’t ever shown any interest in any of them. She always preferred to come home, do her homework, watch TV and spend time by herself.

It’s probably more that John is just so shocked and happy that his daughter is willingly spending time with the other children and making an effort, that he thinks it’s a step in the right direction and doesn’t even think to question in.

**  
Sherlock is finally getting around to examining the rain water he collected a few days ago. Surprisingly, considering he’s stuck in rehab, his day has been pretty busy. He spent the morning deducing all the patients in his wing as they entered and exited their room. He could have easily done the whole stupid building, but he figured he might as well save himself some entertainment for the rest of the time he’s stuck in here.

He’s just about gotten in his rhythm, tuning out the background noise of people in the hallways and their incessant chattering, when he hears the knock on the window. This time, he isn’t surprised and when he leans over his desk to peer out the window, he finds Mina looking up with a smile on her face. Sherlock, surprisingly, doesn’t mind.

He moves the microscope to the side so that he can prop open the window, sticking his head out.

“Have you brought sweets?”

Mina digs around in the pocket of her coat, bringing out sweets in a yellow package. “I brought Jelly Tots.”

Sherlock nods his head, opening the window even further so that he can help Mina up and through the window. Mina silently hands the sweets over, once she’s hopped off of the desk. She dumps her backpack on the bed, hanging her coat on the bed knob again. She moves back to her backpack and brings out a notebook, the front a picture of the London skyline.

Sherlock automatically thinks home when he sees London. Not the sentimental notion of home where he thinks of happiness and family. He thinks of home, where he can get a good Chinese takeout not ten minutes from his house. Where he can spot a criminal in the midst of a large group of people crossing the busy London streets and no one is none the wiser, except for him of course. Where he can easy access to drugs, alcohol, and sex. Well, best he not think of that while in rehab.

Sherlock has already opened the bag of Jelly Tots, leaning against the table, looking at Mina. He watches as she spins around, opening her notebook to the last page she’s written in. He’s surprised that he doesn’t automatically figure out what it is she wrote about. He puts it down to the fact that his mind is slowly deteriorating from the monotony of it all.

“I found your blog about the pollution rates of the water in the Thames,” Mina says shoving the notebook at Sherlock.

He barely has time to drop the Jelly Tots on the table and grab the notebook from the younger girl. His eyes scan the two sheets of pages she’s last written on and sure enough, there’s notes upon notes of his findings in messy writing. He notices the ‘i’s’ are made with little circles instead of a dot.

“I hope it’s enough,” Mina says after a few minutes, when Sherlock doesn’t say anything. She makes her way towards the desk, grabbing a Jelly Tot for herself.

“I already knew all this,” Sherlock answers, eyes still on the notebook.

“Oh-” Mina says and Sherlock doesn’t need to look at her face to know she’s about to sulk. Mycroft has unfortunately pointed out Sherlock’s epic sulks before — not that Sherlock sulks.

But, Mina had taken her own notes, as any scientist should — if they didn’t have an eidetic memory. Most children, hell most adults wouldn’t have bothered with taking such notes, yet Mina had. Why?

“At least you didn’t do such a horrible job at taking notes though,” Sherlock finds himself saying without realising the words are out of his mouth. She’s probably too young to understand shorthand, ‘what age is appropriate to understand shorthand anyway?’ Sherlock thinks.

“Thanks,” Mina says, suddenly happy, the impending sulk completely done. “But I don’t really understand it all.”

“That’s to be expected,” he pushes off of the desk and pulls the microscope back to him, sitting down in the chair. “You better grab your pen if you plan on taking more notes for me,” Sherlock says absently, already adjusting the microscope.

Mina darts back to her backpack, grabbing her pencil case. When she returns to the table, she looks around to see where she can sit. She makes a little ‘hmphh’ noise that distracts Sherlock enough from his microscope. He sighs, turning in his chair to haul Mina up on the desk.

“Sit there and don’t knock anything off. Write down what I say.”

Mina nods her head so seriously, adjusting her legs until she’s sitting crossed legged and her notebook resting on one of her legs her pen poised, waiting.

After 30 minutes, the experiment is concluded. Sherlock could have easily finished a good 15 minutes earlier, had he not had to stop and tell Mina how to spell certain words, when he told her to write her notes down. As annoyed as he normally would have been, it’s actually easier to have someone else doing the writing, that way he can keep his eye on his samples at all times. Plus, it gave him more time to eat his Jelly Tots and man the microscope.

Mina hands Sherlock the notebook over and sure enough, she’s managed to write down everything Sherlock asked with only a few spelling errors, nothing so horrible that he wasn’t still able to understand it.

“So the water is more polluted in London?” Mina asks, pointing to the hypothesis and null hypothesis Sherlock made her write at the top of the sheet.

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, handing Mina the notebook back. He’s not actually going to need these notes and he already knew what the outcome would be, but he wanted to see what other organisms and pollution was in the water here. “Do you have any theories as to why that would be?”

Mina tilts her head to the side, looking at all the notes she took. She adjusts her glasses further up her nose — clearly they need to be tightened and readjusted at the opticians — before she straights up, more alert. “The Great Stink.”

Sherlock can’t help the small grin that threatens to appear. He tilts his head, raising his eyebrow — and Mina is smart enough to understand that Sherlock wants more.

“Way back, like ages ago,” Mina emphasises. “People used to throw all their waste into the Thames, even their pee! That definitely makes the water more dirty.”

Sherlock hums his agreement.

“Plus all the boats that used the Thames back when they didn’t even have cars or trains right?” Mina asks, looking up at Sherlock hopeful. “That must have led to a lot of pollution.”

“That’s a surprisingly apt answer.”

Mina, clearly too young to fully understand sarcasm (not that Sherlock meant to be completely sarcastic, it was more just surprise that she knew what she was talking about —clearly Sherlock hasn’t given her enough credit), just grins. She goes to grab a Jelly Tot only to realise that Sherlock ate them all. She pouts down at the empty sweets bag, before she shrugs and shuts the notebook with all her notes.

“I wonder if people used to throw their pee in the water here. You wouldn’t be able to go swimming in the water.” Mina hops off of the desk, going to her backpack to slide her notebook in.

“I don’t recommend swimming in the Thames either, it’s not pleasant.”

Mina gasps, turning around to look at Sherlock, who’s busying organising the water samples to get rid off.

“You went swimming in the Thames? Gross!” Mina says, clearly grossed out but still fascinated by the idea of taking a little dip in the Thames. “Tell me all about it,” she demands.

“A story for another time I’m afraid.”

Mainly because Sherlock doesn’t know whether it would be appropriate to tell a child that he was chasing a criminal many moons ago, when he was still a teenager and the stupid man, accused of multiple assaults on women had thought it would be a bright idea to jump in the Thames. The man clearly thought that Sherlock would be sane enough not to jump after him. No one ever accused Sherlock Holmes of being sane.

Mina exhales, wanting to hear the story, but doesn’t push it.

Which, is surprisingly for a kid. Not that Sherlock comes in contact with many children outside of the ones that he used to meet because of his obligations with the show and fans that stopped him on the streets. But, most kids never knew when to let up and often asked any, and everything, to the point of annoyance. While sometimes it grated Sherlock, he also enjoyed the fact that most children just spoke their damn mind. There was none of this skirting around thoughts and words to spare feelings that most adults seemed to think was necessary.

Mina has her jacket, hat, mittens, and backpack on, struggling to get back on the table now that she has the extra weight.

Suddenly, it strikes Sherlock.

“Where does your father think you are?”

Mina pauses midway opening the window, turning back to Sherlock, shrugging.

“At home.”

“You’re lying,” Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“After school I’d be home either with Mrs Willows or Mr Chips, our neighbours. They’re nice, but it’s boring sometimes. I told daddy that I joined the science club at school, on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Sherlock snorts. Mina is at a science club of sorts, he supposes. She is learning about science and it is after school, it’s just not at the school. Sherlock could argue the logic, but it also kind of makes sense — in the mind of a child. Sherlock also knows that Mina’s father probably would not impressed at the thought of his daughter wandering around town on her own and spending her time in a rehab facility — but Sherlock isn’t the parent, so he doesn’t see how it’s any of his concern.

He nods his head.

“Bring Hobnob’s next time.”

**

  
On Tuesday evening, it was surprisingly easy for Sherlock to sneak into the kitchen one evening after dinner, without anyone noticing him. It takes him less than a few seconds to see that the knives and all the other cutlery are securely locked away in a drawer — not like he couldn’t pick the lock with his eyes closed. But, that’s not what he’s here for.

He grabs one of the water glasses from one of the cupboards, then makes his way to the industrial size fridge. He takes a minute to actually be jealous of a fridge, not because he’s a big cook or any such nonsense, but he thinks about the amount of experiments and specimens he could actually store in there. Of course, trying to fit a fridge that size in most London apartments would end up taking up half the kitchen and the living room. Especially now that Sherlock apparently has blown through all his money. Once the fridge is opened, he pulls open the vegetable drawer (not that he’s ever used the vegetable drawer in his own fridges to ever store vegetables) and grabs what he needs.

It’s easy enough for him to sneak back out and into his room before any of the nurses comes to check on everyone for the night. He does however bump into Henry, who’s just going back in to his own room beside Sherlock’s — clearly having just gone for a cigarette. Henry raises his eyebrow at what Sherlock’s holding, but doesn’t say anything else. Sherlock just holds his head high, opening the door to his own room and shuts it with a loud click.

**  
“Did you bring my Hobnobs?”

Mina’s feet have barely hit the floor, shaking off the sprinkling of snow on her ghastly hat with pompoms coming down from the ear flaps. To top it all off, the hat has eyes, and ears poking up straight from the top of her head. How no one could notice her walking on the rehab centre grounds from a mile away is beyond Sherlock.

“We only had Jammie Dodgers,” Mina fishes the pack of biscuits out of her backpack.

Sherlock humphs, but takes the packet anyway, tearing it open.

“I hope you brought your notebook, we have another experiment to conduct,” Sherlock says, then promptly bites into the sickly sweet biscuit with raspberry filling in the middle.

“What experiment do we have today?” and Mina asks it so seriously, pulling out her notebook. She pulls out her pencil case as well, digging around for her pencil.

When Mina turns back around, it’s to see Sherlock pulling out a drinking glass and what looked like a white little plump bulb with white hairs on the end. Sherlock nods his head towards the desk and what he’s laid out, telling Mina that she’s allowed to inspect, all the while eating another biscuit.

“Do you know what that is?”

Mina pokes the white thing, moving closer to it and gives it a sniff.

Good, Sherlock approves. The sense of smell is important when it comes to observations.

“It smells like an onion,” Mina concludes, scrunching up her nose, looking up at Sherlock.

“Yes, a green onion, also known as a scallion or spring onion. It comes from the Allium species.”

Mina quickly opens up her notebook, perching on the seat with her knees under here. She starts to take notes, pausing to ask Sherlock how to spell Allium.

“And what’s Allium?”

“A monocotyledonous flowering plant. It includes onions, garlic, leeks, and some other ones.”

“I don’t know how to spell that mono- word,” Mina says trying to sound it out and spell it in her notebook.

“Forget that, it’s not too important for you right now.”

“So what’s the experiment?” Mina asks, tapping her pencil on the notebook. She reaches for a Jammie Dodger before Sherlock polishes off the pack.

Sherlock points to the bulb of the green onion.

“You’re going to take that, and turn it into a fully grown green onion.”

Mina frowns, pushing the bulb of the green onion with her pointer finger. She finally picks it up, turning it around and around to look at it, clearly trying to examine every last bit of it.

“I don’t see how I’m supposed to do that.”

“Well, what do you think you’d need to do for something to grow?” Sherlock asks,

“Water it?” Mina asks, tilting her head to the side and then brightening up. “Plant it?”

Sherlock smiles around his biscuit.

“Very well done. Although this time around we don’t need the soil.” When Sherlock sees that Mina is confused once again, he continues on. “You’ll need to fill the glass with water and then place the green onion bulb in there. After a few days it should start to grow.”

“Got it,” Mina says nodding her head. She finishes jotting down her notes then grabs the glass off of the table. She runs to the en suite bathroom in Sherlock’s room and fills the glass up to the top with water.

“Not too much water, less than half,” Sherlock calls from the bedroom.

Mina comes back in with a small amount of water in the glass, holding it up for Sherlock to see, checking to see that it’s the right amount of water. Sherlock nods his head.

“Do I just drop the green onion in there?”

When Sherlock nods his head, Mina plops it in and then looks at it.

“Now what?”

“Now we wait.”

“How long?”

“A few days.”

Mina pouts, shaking the glass around on the table to watch the green onion blob move around a little.

“That’s not very fun.”

“On that I agree,” Sherlock hums. “But in a few days time, you’ll see that it’s sprouted.”

“And then we can eat it?”

Sherlock grimaces, looking at the green onion. He takes another Jammy Dodger, as if to get the thought of eating a green onion on its own out of his mind.

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Sherlock starts, “however you could cook with it.”

“I don’t cook.”

“Your father can use it then,” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Oh yeah,” Mina grins.

“You could even take some photos of it, if your mobile phone allows it and then when you come back in a few days, you can see how it’s changed.”

Mina’s eyes widen, loving the idea, clearly not having thought of it herself. She pulls out her mobile phone from her bag and it’s an older Nokia, the picture quality is hardly going to be anywhere near as good as some of the updated phones on the market, but it’ll do for Mina’s sake.

Mina snaps a few photos from different angles and once again Sherlock approves. Best to see how the changes occur from every available angle, rather than just from one point.

“You’ll look after it until next time won’t you?” Mina asks for the third time since she’s started getting ready to go home.

“Yes,” Sherlock snaps, at his wits end. Mina for some reason this time has decided that Sherlock is telling the truth. She nods her head, smiley sweetly — which must mean that’s what she used on her father when she’s being obnoxious.

“I still want my Hobnobs,” Sherlock shouts out the window once he’s helped Mina outside.

**  
Sherlock’s in the common room on Tuesday, not that he was socialising per se, but he deduced that one of the patients (Tiff? Toff? Whatever her name was) spouse was cheating on her. She was an alcoholic, back in rehab for the third time, but clearly came from a wealthy family, considering she’s in this particular rehab centre. She’s clearly in her late twenties, very early thirties, attractive by most people’s standards, known around London’s high society.

Tiff (possibly Toff) to Sherlock’s surprise didn’t gasp, or slap him across the face, or run away crying, instead she just smiles, as pleasant as you please. The kind of smile where she’d rather say something, but instead is trying to be polite.

‘Boring’ Sherlock thinks.

“What spouse isn’t cheating on their partner these days?” Tiff (Sherlock is pretty sure it’s Tiff) asks.

Sherlock hums his agreement, because the motive for most murders seems to be due to cheating, or suspected cheating, or jealousy. It was a never ending circle.

“Your husband isn’t cheating on you with a woman.”

Tiff’s eyes widen in surprise. Finally.

“He’s given up on the stereotypical man sleeping with a woman who has just turned legal. His focus seems to be on men.”

A few of the other people in the room suddenly seem to stop what they’re doing to watch secretly what Sherlock and Tiff are talking about. He watches as Tiff purses her lips and then seems to shake off the annoyance, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“Ah so you did know, I had thought, but I couldn’t be sure.”

Obvious. He comes from a traditional family, would disown him, and disinherit him if they knew he was more inclined to men than woman. He and Tiff get on well enough, that’s evident. However, they seem to have an agreement, whether they sleep together as well as him sleeping with men (not that Sherlock cares either way) and it suits both Tiff and her husband just fine. Though it’s not something they clearly talk about, not even with their closet friends.

“How could you possibly know that?” Tiff asks, finally quietening her voice and leaning foreword on her chair, across from Sherlock, so that only he can here.

“It’s obvious by your nail polish,” Sherlock huffs standing up from the chair. He buttons his suit jacket and strides out the door at ten past three in the afternoon, ignoring the stares of everyone else in the common room. He doesn’t need to look at Tiff to know that she’s gobsmacked.

Sherlock didn’t know that Tiff’s husband slept with men because of her nail polish of course, that would be idiotic. No, Sherlock knew that Tiff’s husband slept with men, because Sherlock Holmes slept with Tad Yukimura months past.

Sherlock only remembered Yukimura because Sherlock’s seen him often enough at some of Irene Adler’s clubs. Tad Yukimura wasn’t into drugs, didn’t drink enough to get too drunk to not realise what he was doing, but he did enjoy going out most nights, being surrounded by people and of course sleeping with men, all in secrecy.

He only realised that Tiff was married to Tad when he connected the last names as being the same, not to mention that Tiff’s wedding ring is identical to Tad’s, with inscriptions on the outside. Apparently Tad didn’t see it necessary to take his wedding ring off while sleeping with people other than his wife and Sherlock couldn’t care less what goes on in his conquests personal lives. Sherlock also didn’t feel the need to tell Tiff that he had slept with her husband, because it would only end up causing more drama than Sherlock needed.

He wasn’t in one of those dreadful reality television shows that he had accidentally watched one time when he was too high to get up from the couch to change the channel on the television.

Plus, he wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to find a way to keep him in here longer if he really did end up terrorising every single last patient in the building.

**  
Sherlock gets back to his room just before quarter after three in the afternoon, knowing that Mina is going to turn on any second now. She normally gets out of school just after 3PM and it takes her anywhere between ten to fifteen minutes to get here, depending on her walking speed, and whether she gets out of class on time.

He’s busy inspecting the green onion and how much it’s managed to grow in just under two days when he hears a tap on the window.

It really would be so much easier if there were a little stoop outside the window so that Mina could climb on there and hoist herself in the window already. As it is, it’s lucky enough that she’s still light and small enough to fit through the window, so Sherlock has no problems hoisting her up.

“I brought Wine Gums,” is the first thing Mina says as Sherlock sets her down on the ground.

He has to brush some of the snow off of his suit jacket from her coat, watching it melt as soon as his hands come in contact with it.

Mina is apparently smarter this time around. Now, she opens the bag of sweets, digging around and then picking some out, hoarding some to herself before handing the bag to Sherlock. He watches as Mina holds her sweets in one hand, while simultaneously trying to get her backpack open so she can get her notebook.

“What do you normally do with all the other flavours if you only eat the red ones?”

“I give them to daddy,” Mina says as if Sherlock should already know that.

Mina manages to get her notebook out of her bag, dumping her sweets on the table, but still close enough to her so that Sherlock won’t nick any of them. The green onions, in a few days time has managed to grow enough that it’s completely noticeable, now looking more like a green onion than just the white bulb it used to be.

“Look!” Mina says, trying to thrust her old mobile phone in Sherlock’s face, but she’s several inches too short to even reach his face. “Look how much the green onions have grown since last time!”

“I don’t need to see the photos to see how much they’ve grown,” Sherlock says, waiting for Mina to take her phone back.

Mina’s fingers prod at the green part of the green onion that wasn’t there last week, looking at everything so intently. She takes some photos on her mobile phone, again from every angle. When she’s done taking photos, she leans in to sniff the green onions.

“They’re perfect! Can I try one now?”

“No.”

“Why not? I want to try one.”

“I haven’t got a knife to cut a piece off,” Sherlock tries.

Mina turns to him pouting. She realises that he’s out of Wine Gums because she silently hands the last two of her red ones over to him, all the while still pouting.

‘That can’t possibly work, can it?’ Sherlock wonders. Sherlock takes the blasted Wine Gums.

“You can bite a piece off,” Sherlock sighs, relenting. “A small piece,” he reminds her.

Mina refocuses her attention back on the green onions, doesn’t bother to pull it out, instead leans closer to the glass with the green onions, and bites a small piece off of the largest green onion. Sherlock watches in amusement the instant Mina realises that biting the green onion was not a smart choice. In Sherlock’s defence, he did try to persuade her not to.

She makes a face, not enjoying the taste of the green onions.

“Spit it out in the bathroom!” Sherlock barks out quickly, before she spits it out in his bedroom. Mina hops off of the chair, and runs to the bathroom hearing her spit it out.

“Yuck, it was kind of spicy,” Mina whines when she comes out of the bathroom.

“Some of them are sternly flavoured,” Sherlock concedes. “I did tell you not to eat it.”

Mina moves her tongue around her mouth, trying to get the taste out of her mouth, looking longing at Sherlock’s last Wine Gums. Nope, Sherlock is not sharing, Mina bartered with her Wine Gums fair and square all because she wanted to try the green onions. She moves closer, practically attaching herself to Sherlock’s leg, looking up at him.

Sherlock grumbles, handing over the last red Wine Gum to Mina.

“Thank you Sherlock,” Mina says all too sweetly, once she’s eaten the Wine Gum and gotten rid of the green onion taste.

Sherlock humphs, as he decides who he wants to deduce tonight at dinner.

Later, Mina is getting ready to go home, Sherlock already busying himself with some of his own notes for some of his other experiments, when Mina interrupts Sherlock’s thoughts.

“Can I take the green onions home?”

“Yes. I have no use for them here.”

Mina squeals in delight, picking up the glass and hugging it close to her chest, mindful to not knock the green onions on the ground. Sherlock looks up from his notes, noticing how proud Mina is of her green onions and how they managed to grow.

Sherlock suddenly remembers some of his first experiments when he was younger, younger than Mina is now and how excited and happy he had been. He’d even run to show Mycroft when Mycroft was home from boarding school. Those were the days when Sherlock and Mycroft actually got along, because Mycroft had told Sherlock how clever he was and asked about the experiments and gave him pointers for future ones. Granted, even when Sherlock was younger than Mina, his experiments were a little more advanced than growing green onions, but you have to start somewhere and most other children wouldn’t even care to try growing their own green onions, let alone other experiments.

Sherlock helps Mina out the window, handing her the glass with the green onions in it once she’s back on firm ground, and tells her to be careful, reminding her of the instructions on how to keep them growing, even after she cuts them.

“I know Sherlock,” she whines, “I did take my own notes you know!” and with that she’s off.

**  
The second that John walks through the front door, Mina runs into the hallway, clutching something in her hand. John’s more surprised that Mina is deigning to even meet him at the door, when she’s normally watching Deduce with Sherlock Holmes, or absorbed in a book.

“Look what I grew in science club!”

Mina thrusts a glass in his hand, and he barely has time to drop his work satchel, throw his keys on the table by the entry and prop his cane up, lest he drop what Mina managed to grow.

John takes the glass and shakes his around. “Green onions.”

“We grew it just from the little white bit at the bottom there,” she emphasises, tapping the glass John’s holding so that he can see.

“That’s amazing Mina,” John bends down to kiss Mina on the head, careful not to tip the green onions out of the water.

“And you can cut it, and it’ll still grow back. I don’t know how long it’ll last for though.”

John walks into the kitchen, puts down the glass, washing his hands. He says goodbye to Mrs Willow, who was busy watching one of those TV quiz shows. It’s something she and Mina likes to do, because Mina tries to answer as many questions as she can. She’ll probably get better at it as she gets older, but they still have fun nonetheless.

“Well, what do you say for dinner tonight we make omelettes and chop some of the green onions up and throw them in with some cheese?” John asks, rummaging around in the fridge for the correct ingredients.

“But I don’t like green onions.”

John straightens up packet of cheese in hand, turning around to look at Mina. “You don’t?”

“I bit a piece off today,” Mina nods, making a face.

John chuckles, grabbing the cheese grater, handing it to Mina. She loves to grate the cheese, mainly because she sneaks some of the cheese to eat for herself and she grates. She ends up eating more cheese than she grates.

“You aren’t meant to eat it on its own, it doesn’t taste very nice like that. A little sprinkled in an omelette and you might just like it,” John says, still laughing. He ruffles Mina’s hair.

“Fine, but if I don’t like it, I get extra dessert tonight.”

“Nice try kiddo.”

Mina busies herself grating the cheese, while she also keeps an eye on John as he cuts off a piece of the green onion to chop it up into small pieces. John lets Mina help crack the eggs, mixing them together. It takes John longer, having to spend time picking the egg shells out of the omelette, but one of these days Mina will get the hang of it — he hopes.

Once dinner is served, John waits to watch Mina take a small bite of the omelette with a piece of the green onion to see if she likes it. She chews it thoughtfully, as if she’s a food critic — and clearly she’s been watching Great British Bake Off with Mrs Willow too much — and then nods her head.

“It doesn’t taste too bad,” she declares.

John smiles. “Good. It tastes even better because you’re the one that grew it.”

“You think?” Mina beams.

“Of course. Everyone always says growing your own fruit and veg tastes better than buying it from the supermarket.”

“We should have our on garden in the backyard!” Mina exclaims, excited about the prospect.

Damn. John should have known better than to say that, because of course Mina would get excited at the thought of it. Then, probably less than a month later she’d be bored of it, and John would be stuck doing all the gardening, or letting the poor fruit and vegetables wilt, or get lost to the animals.

“Maybe,” John concedes. They should start with lettuce or something equally as easy.

“But we can still grow the green onions?”

“If you’re going to eat it.”

“I will,” Mina nods her head quickly.

“We can use it as garnish for some dishes then.”

“Like the fancy people,” Mina grins.

John grins back. “Lets not get ahead of ourselves now.”

**

It’s a Friday, and one of John’s days off. He’s made a pretty decent dent in his chores for the day, considering it’s not even lunch time. He got Mina up and off to school, managed to do the grocery shopping while on his way home and got the hoovering done.

He’s just turned the Hoover off when he hears his mobile ringing. By the time he gets to his phone, it stops ringing. He sees who it is calling on the little screen and knows it means he’s probably about to get called away. To be honest though, he’d much rather the distraction than doing any more housework. He almost wishes Mina didn’t have school so they could do something together.

He calls back and before he knows it, he’s out the door.

**  
John shows up Old Castle rehabilitation, letting himself int he front entrance. He hasn’t spent an excessive amount of time here, but he’s always willing to help Sarah out when they’re short staffed and he’s free and not busy with Mina.

“John, oh thank God you’re here, it’s been a little crazy trying to get everything done,” Sarah greets, giving him a quick hug before she’s always flipping through the papers on her clipboard.

“Not a problem Sarah, you know I’m always happy to help when I can.”

“You’re a saint,” Sarah smiles, looking up from her clipboard. She says something to one of the receptionist and is handed a clipboard. “One of the others called in sick and another is on holiday so we’re running behind and there’s still a load of patients to drug test. Would you mind terribly doing the ones for the men? We’ve got some of the other nurses running the female tests.” Sarah hands him a clipboard with a list of names.

“You got it,” John says, smiling. “Jars still where they alway are?”

“Uh-huh,” Sarah says already distracted by something, walking off in the opposite direction.

Now it’s not exactly the same as working in a hospital. It’s not all hustle and bustle, but it’s still something different. It’s not like John has to run a lot of drug tests at the clinic, so he’s happy for a change of pace — even if it is his day off.

John makes his way to the mens wing of the centre, starting at the end of the corridor and making his way down. Most of the patients seem to be used to the idea of getting tested, the joys of being in a rehab centre and getting tested regularly. John writes the name of the patient on the jar, hands it the patient, and stands by the door, facing away, waiting for the patient to do their business. He gets handed back the container, puts it in his little trolley and goes on to the next room.

It’s not exactly pleasant having to stroll down the corridor with a trolley full of piss and then having to keep an eye on said trolley before any other patient tries to nick some of the pee, or doing a little swap. Just because this is a high end rehab centre, doesn’t mean that patients are above subterfuge to get what they want. Addicts are addicts after all.

John has just checked Henry Knight’s name off the list, when his eyes land on the name of the resident in the room next door.

Sherlock Holmes.

‘Surely not the Sherlock Holmes?’ John thinks. Then again, how many Sherlock Holmes are walking around. It’s not exactly a common name.

‘Well, this will be interesting,’ John thinks, as he knocks on the door, waiting a few seconds before opening it.

**  
Sherlock knows today is drug testing day. It can happen ‘anytime’ fortnightly, but it’s not as if Sherlock can’t tell when it’s coming. Obvious. He’d rather be anywhere else, but at the same time, he knows if he wanders around the centre and misses the testing, they’ll only manage to hunt him down and make him piss in the bloody jar, but worse than that, they’d probably report back to his brother.

Still, he’s not going to make it easy for them.

He distantly hears a knock on the door he thinks, but he’s more focused on his violin, playing as he looks out the window. He shuts his eyes, playing Paganini, pieces that he’s memorised since he was a child and find himself playing the pieces when he’s in a bit of a mood.

“Knock knock,” a voice calls into the room, distracting Sherlock.

“Go away,” Sherlock says, scraping the bow along the strings, making a loud screech. He knows he won’t be able to finish his piece anyway. He lets the bow drop down to his side, but doesn’t move his violin and doesn’t turn around.

A throat clears, but the person doesn’t say anything more.

‘Boring,’ Sherlock thinks. He wanted to get a rise out of whoever it was that got stuck giving him a drug test. He’s sure that he can deduce something about them, what they had for dinner the night before, or something equally as random just to see how they react. It’s not like they all don’t already know he’s likely to deduce them anyway.

Sherlock sighs, turning around to see what nurse or doctor drew the short straw.

His eyes are instantly drawn to a face he seems to remember and then his eyes drop down to the cane.

‘Shit,’ Sherlock thinks, because he definitely remembers who that is and he definitely never thought he’d be seeing him again. Especially after bringing up the dead wife, and possibly traumatising the child. Of course, Sherlock knows that Mina is anything but traumatised but he doesn’t know that Sherlock knows that.

Suddenly, Sherlock is hit with the fact that he doesn’t know his name. He only knows him as Mina’s dad and when she does talk about him, it’s not as if she calls him by his first name, only ‘dad’ or ‘daddy.’ Not exactly something Sherlock wants to call him anytime soon.

“Sherlock Holmes, time for you to piss in a jar.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow. “Is that how you speak to all your patients Doctor Watson?”

“How do you know my name?” At least Sherlock remembered that Mina’s last name is Watson, if only he had paid attention to her fathers name — though come to think of it, he doesn’t think they were truly introduced that first time at the meet and greet. Probably because Sherlock proceeded straight to pissing the Doctor off.

“We have met before if you recall,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, moving to his bed to put his violin away in the case.

“That was a month ago now.”

“Do you normally tend to forget things in less than a months time? As a doctor surly you should know that could be a sign to something more serious Doctor Watson,” Sherlock shuts his violin case, then straightens up.

“It’s John. John Watson.”

‘Ah, there we go,’ Sherlock thinks.

“Have you got your memory checked then?”

“I don’t have a memory problem,” John huffs.

“If you say so,’ Sherlock goads.

“All I meant by it was that I didn’t think you’d remember who I was considering we met for less than ten minutes.”

“I told you I spotted you and one other adult male in the audience and from that you still think I’d manage to forget a face?” Sherlock makes his way closer to John. He doesn’t miss the way that John stands up a little taller, prouder, his hand gripping his cane instinctively.

John opens his mouth, about to reply, but Sherlock is quicker. “You don’t normally work here.”

Sherlock knows that, hates pointing out the obvious, but he’d rather get John to volunteer the information this time around, just to see if John will.

“No I don’t. Short staffed is all.”

‘That and you used to have a thing with Sarah Sawyer,’ but Sherlock doesn’t mention that he knows that, not yet anyway.

“And you drew the short straw I see.”

Sherlock snatches the jar out of John’s lax hand, startling the doctor and heads towards the bathroom. He keeps the bathroom door open, like he knows he’s meant to. It takes a little longer than he thought, but soon Sherlock hears John huff and then the footsteps of John walking towards the bathroom, his back to the door.

Sherlock places the jar on the counter, lid off, ready to grab it when he needs it. He unzips his trousers, grabbing the jar, just as he’s about to start peeing, he speaks up. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Sherlock sees in the mirror the second John stiffens and then whirls around, apparently having forgot what Sherlock is doing. “Sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Sorry how did you know?” John steps further into the bathroom, forgetting about privacy.

“You’re an Army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan. Got married, had a child, but we’ve been over that part. You have a brother, an alcoholic, recently divorced, maybe separated, which probably explains why you’d spend your day off helping out at a rehab centre when they are short staffed. And I know that your therapist thinks that your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid.” Sherlock finishes peeing and turns to look at John who is standing by the sink.

John is starting at him utterly gobsmacked. John shakes himself out of it and then realises that he’s standing inside the bathroom and looking at Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes who still has his cock out and John looks, startles himself that he even looked, then looks again, and turns a bright shade of red.

This is definitely the most fun Sherlock has had since he’s been here. Sherlock smirks, tucking himself back into his trousers, screwing the lid onto the jar. He moves closer to the sink, which means he’s closer to John.

John turns an even brighter shade of red, realising he needs to move out of the way, muttering a sorry, and letting Sherlock get to the sink.

As John leaves the bathroom, Sherlock finishes washing his hands, picks up the jar and walks back out into the bedroom. John’s standing just outside the door, holds his hand out for the jar. The few seconds seemed to have allowed John to recollect himself, but he’s still got a slight flush about him.

“So how did I do?” Sherlock asks, as John places the jar with all the others on the trolley, ticking Sherlock’s name off the list.

“How’d you know about Harry?” John asks, his back to Sherlock as he fiddles with the trolley.

“Your brother? Simple really, your mobile at the meet and greet, it had the name Clara on it. Now who’s Clara? Could have been your deceased wife, but then it had Harry’s name on it as well, so not yours. Your brother obviously no longer wanted the mobile, so they’re no longer together, it ended badly and he doesn’t want the reminder. As I said, with your daughter and the wedding ring she wears around her neck, had you separated it’s unlikely you’d allow her to wear the ring, painful memories -”

“- How’d you know about Harry being an alcoholic?” John asks, finally turning around to face Sherlock.

“The scruff marks around the power connection. Every night when he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunk’s without them.”

John frowns, his eyebrows knitting together. “You got all that from the marks around my mobile?”

“Yes.”

“That’s bloody amazing.”

“Did I miss anything?”

“There was something,” John grins devilishly, tucking the clipboard into the trolley, ready to leave the room.

“There was? What was it?” Sherlock demands.

“Harry, it’s short for Harriet,” and with that John is out the door, ready to get on with the rest of his day.

“Sister!”

“Mhmm,” John hums, now outside of Sherlock’s bedroom, grinning. “That was still bloody amazing though.”

“There’s always something,” Sherlock sighs, still annoyed that he didn’t realise that it was a sister.

John chuckles, shaking his head. “I better get back anyway, get these to the lab. I’m happy that you’re getting help.”

Sherlock sees when John instantly winces, about to backtrack.

“Uh, am I allowed to say that? It’s not like this is supposed to be anonymous or something it is a rehab centre after all.”

Sherlock waves his hand, dismissing it. “This isn’t AA John. Unless of course you’re planning on running to the tabloids and telling them I’m here. They’d love nothing more than to get a photo of Sherlock Holmes leaving a rehab centre.”

“I’d never do that,” John says without hesitation.

“People have done less for money,” Sherlock says, turning to face the window.

“Oh yeah? A lot of money in handing out the gossip on Sherlock Holmes eh?” John says jokingly.

“You’d be surprised.”

“What? Seriously? That’s ridiculous.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Sherlock hums.

“Well, I’ll be going now.”

“Goodbye John Watson.”

“Goodbye Sherlock Holmes,” John says in a mocking tone, pretending to be serious like Sherlock. He can hear the grin in John’n voice.

Sherlock smiles, more to himself, refusing to turn around so that John can’t see him.

Apparently, the Watson’s somehow manage to entertain Sherlock Holmes while he’s in this hellhole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I most definitely won't have future chapters be this long in the future, but these first two chapters (along with a chunk more) has already been written and I found it difficult where to actually break the story up so far to post, but I chose these as the first two chapters because I thought they ended in good places. I hope you enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no beta so if there are any glaringly obvious mistakes that annoy you, by all means point it out. :)  
> Also please read notes at the end if there's a chance you'll have a problem with any sort of relationship being formed while someone is in rehab.

Just under a month Sherlock has been here. Just under a month since Sherlock has had drugs, had sex. He’s had cigarettes, but that hardly counts. Just under a month since he’s breathed the London air. All in all, Sherlock, with his addictive and equally destructive personality has so rarely lasted a month without doing what he’s wanted to do.

So really, Sherlock deserves a break.

That break involves sneaking out of the clinic and exploring the town. Technically, he’s not supposed to leave until he gets permission to leave the grounds and would be drug tested when he came back, but he doesn’t bother asking anyone. If they do realise he’s missing, they’ll give him a drug test anyway and they’re certainly not going to kick him out with the amount of money he’s paying to be here. Or the money Mycroft is paying, rather.

Sherborne is a small enough town that you could hardly get lost, even with your eyes closed. The buildings are old and quintessentially English. There are quite a few historic buildings, some entirely out of old bricks, others half-timber.

Sherlock strolls past the Abbey, through a park and then makes his way down the high street. There are shops along both sides of the street, mostly all family shops, with a few more well-known stores.

Sherlock stumbles upon a little shop that’s dedicated to repairing violins and he’s instantly drawn in. He hasn’t had much need to look at violins in the past, he’s had the same one for as long as he can remember and doesn’t need to shop for other instruments. Whenever he’s needed it tuned or tweaked, he’s always sent it away for someone else to do it.

He meets the owner of the store and spends some talking to him. Sherlock, never one to make small talk, doesn’t actually mind speaking to the man. He’s knowledgable in a field that actually interests Sherlock and has years of expertise on Sherlock and Sherlock can appreciate that. The man shows Sherlock the violins he’s currently repairing, they talk about music and should Sherlock need anything while he’s staying here, then he knows where to go.

After, Sherlock nips into the corner shop to buy a pack of cigarettes — having nicked enough off of Henry — he pays with some spare cash, knowing that his brother has probably put a hold on his credit card so that he wouldn’t try and make a mad dash for it. Though he wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to already know he’s left the centre.

Back outside, lighting up a cigarette and enjoying the first puff, he realises that he’s already walked the whole town. He’s not much for sightseeing unless there’s a purpose to it. He quickly moves out of the way of an elderly couple walking along the sidewalk as they give him a disapproving look as he exhales smoke.

Fortunately, even if he is a ‘celebrity’ — and oh how Sherlock loathes that word — he’s not the calibre of a celebrity where he can’t even blend in. It’s still during school hours, so most of the people that would notice him aren’t around and the adults don’t pay him any mind. Some parents might notice, but no one has said anything and he’s thankful for that. It helps that he can turn up his coat collar and blend in easily enough.

He notices a sign leading to the hospital when he gets an idea.

**  
Having not seen a doctor’s office while on his stroll, Sherlock deduced that it must be near the hospital and sure enough he sees the doctor’s clinic attached to the hospital.

When he walks in, he notices that there are no patients sitting in the waiting room and one receptionist at the desk. Small town indeed. Sherlock knows you’d never be able to go to the doctor’s office in London and not expect at least a good ten people ahead of you in the queue. Not that Sherlock really bothers going to the doctors and when he does, he normally goes private.

“John Watson,” Sherlock announces to the receptionist.

“I’m sorry? Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist, Cheryl, asks looking at the computer screen. As if she needs to look at the screen to see what appointments are coming up. She’d probably be able to know the schedule for the whole month considering how small this place is.

“It’s nearly noon, I assume John will be having his break soon?”

“You don’t have an appointment.”

‘Dull,’ Sherlock thinks. Time to put an act on.

“It’s a medical emergency,” Sherlock sways to the side, letting one of his hands slip down onto the counter, gripping the edge so that his knuckles turns white. He closes his eyes, wincing, it’s fortunate that he’s pale in general, it helps him look ill when he needs to.

“Oh dear,” Cheryl says, clearly more concerned with making sure Sherlock doesn’t pass out on her watch. It’s clear that she's not used to dealing with irate patients, if only she lived in London she’d be a little more thick skinned. It’s fortunate for Sherlock though because she picks up the phone, presumably to call John in his office.

“I’ll find my way,” Sherlock interrupts just as she’s about to speak into the phone. He straightens up, fixes his coat and heads down the one and only hallway, to find John’s office. He sees a door with the sign John Watson on it.

Just as he’s about to open the door on his own, the door opens to reveal John Watson about to rush out of the room. He bumps straight into Sherlock, Sherlock steadying him before John takes a step back. John’s dressed casually considering he’s at work, in a dark blue blazer, a plaid shirt underneath, and dark jeans.

“Jesus, Sherlock? Are you okay?”

“Ah good, you’re not busy,” Sherlock says, peering over John into his empty office. “Lunch?”

John splutters, looks down at the hallway to Cheryl, nodding his head that everything is all right, before he turns his attention back to Sherlock. “Lunch?”

“Don’t tell me you call your lunch dinner, and dinner your tea?”

“What? No. I know what lunch is Sherlock,” John huffs.

“Good, then grab your coat and lets go.”

“You’re serious?” John asks, taking a step back to look at Sherlock fully. When John doesn’t get a reply, he just reaches his hand out for his coat on the coatrack beside the door in his office.

Sherlock isn’t all that surprised to find that John is following him out of the office. John says something to Cheryl about going out to lunch and she looks perplexed but doesn’t say anything further.

Once they’re both outside, Sherlock pulls his scarf tighter around his neck and goes back in the direction that he came from.

“Where are we going?”

“To lunch.”

“Don’t be an arse,” John huffs, his cane clicking on the ground, walking beside Sherlock.

Sherlock stops outside a pub, turning to face John. He tilts his head to the side, indicating the pub, silently asking John if it’s an acceptable choice. Sherlock hardly knows where the good places to eat in this town are, but from the state of the sign and the windows, Sherlock thinks it’ll be an acceptable place to eat.

John hesitates. “Are you sure?”

‘Surely the place can’t be that bad, the sign and the windows tell me otherwise,’ he thinks. ‘Ah, I see.’ Sherlock knows what John’s worried about.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m a drug addict, not an alcoholic. I think I can control myself in a pub.”

“This is not a good idea,” John mumbles, shaking his head, but he enters the pub anyway, Sherlock following close behind.

They seat themselves at one of the booths nearer the back of the pub, away from the front entrance and the windows. After looking over the menu, they make their way to the bar to order their food. John orders beef and ale pie, and Sherlock orders scampi, along with glasses of water.

When they get back to their booth, they sit in silence and Sherlock taps his fingers in a random rhythm, John twirling his glass of water on the table, running his finger over the condensation.

“How’d you get into TV?”

“It’s been a long standing dream of mine ever since I was a child.”

John grins. “Liar.”

Sherlock smiles, nodding his head in agreement with John. He takes a sip of his water before answering. “It annoyed my brother.”

“I’d say you’re lying again, but oddly enough in the limited time I’ve known you, I can actually believe that.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t take offence to that.”

John laughs, placing his hands on the table one over the other, leaning in. “C’mon fess up, why’d you want to annoy your brother?”

“He would have preferred me to get a job in the government. My parents would have wanted that, or a respectable job in science, research or even a professor.”

“So naturally you get into TV.”

“Yes. I was high during almost the entirety of my Masters, agreed to one thing and then the next thing I knew I was filming a pilot for a friend and then it got into the hands of some TV executives.”

“You got into TV because you were high?” John asks incredulously.

Of course, it’s at that time that the waiter comes over with their food. The woman looks momentarily stunned before she recovers, placing the food in front of them and asking if there’s anything else they need. When they both shake their head no, she wishes them a good meal and disappears.

“Not the best of decisions on my part,” Sherlock continues the conversation when they’re alone once again.

“You regret it?”

“Not really, no. The kind of experiments I do on the show are beneath me, I was doing them when I was six, but the kids seemed to respond to the show, they wanted to learn. That interested me.”

“Mina, my daughter, she absolutely adores you, the show is quite popular. Or was popular I suppose I should say.”

Sherlock ignores the bit about Mina because he doubts he should bring up the fact that he’s seen her multiple times since he’s been in Sherborne.

“Not to mention the money was good, as I don’t have access to my trust fund.”

“I knew you were a posh git.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John, but John only grins through a mouth full of pie. It’s not like it’s the first time that Sherlock’s been called a posh git and it certainly won’t be the last time.

John stays silent for a little while longer, but this time John doesn’t seem uncomfortable in the silence. He’s busy eating his food, while Sherlock swirls his around the plate, taking a bite every once in a while.

After they’ve finished eating the fall into an easy conversation. Sherlock asks about John’s military past, interested in the fact that John’s not only a doctor but a solider and how they seem like completely opposite fields to be working in. John tells stories about his leaves when he came back from being away, about the trouble he and his comrades used to get into when they had free time.

Sherlock notices that John doesn’t bring up the later part of his life. He leaves out the time period of when he obviously got married. He doesn’t have a problem talking about Mina though, just his marriage. He supposes most people are sensitive about those sorts of things and Sherlock has already deduced that John was married, and now she’s dead. He doesn’t need to know anymore.

Soon enough the waitress is coming over and collecting their plates and asking if they want any dessert. They both shake their head no. She comes back a few minutes later, leaving the bill at the end of the table before slipping away, leaving them in peace again.

“I don’t have my wallet,” Sherlock says, eyes drawn to the bill. “Or rather, I believe my card will be declined.”

“Posh git like you?”

“My brother,” Sherlock says, like that explains everything

John shakes his head, scratching his light stubble. One of his hands digs into his jacket to produce his wallet. “Cheap date.”

Sherlock watches the instant that John freezes, then comes back to himself.

“I mean, not that I’m saying you’re my date or anything.”

Sherlock just raises his eyebrow and watches John squirm. It’s quite intriguing, that coupled with the fact of how John acted back at the rehab when he barged in on Sherlock in the bathroom.

“I wouldn’t want to upset a girlfriend or anything,” John says into the silence.

“Women, not really my area,” Sherlock finally adds to the conversation.

“Oh. Boyfriend? Because that’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine.”

“Right uh, good? It’s fine, all fine,” John says. He promptly opens his wallet just to have something to do to distract himself.

Oh Sherlock really does love to watch John squirm. It’s just too amusing, if he could push it more he would. Maybe next time. As it is, John lays down some notes on top of the bill, putting his wallet away, obviously not waiting for change.

“I don’t know what brought this on, but of all the ways to get kidnapped from my office, this isn’t the worst,” John says, standing up to shrug into his jacket.

Sherlock does the same, easily slipping into his Belstaff, winding his scarf around his neck. “Noted,” Sherlock smiles. “And thank you for lunch.”

“I’m sure your ploy is always to ‘forget’ your wallet, eh?” John grins, patting his pocket to make sure he has his wallet.

“At least we weren’t at the Dorchester in London. I fear you may have had a coronary when you saw the prices,” Sherlock says dead seriously. It’s a pretentious restaurant and one Sherlock has to endure every time his parents are in town along with his brother.

“Yeah well you can pay for that one next time,” John grabs his cane and starts walking towards the exit.

Sherlock notices that John doesn’t even pause when he says that, indicating that Sherlock can pay for the next meal — as if there’s going to be another meal. Instead, John walks towards the exit and outside confidently and Sherlock finds himself following.

“I had a good time,” John says when they’re standing outside.

“As did I,” Sherlock grabs a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting up. John wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t say anything further on it. “It beats spending another minute in that droll building.”

“That building is a grade listed building,” John says, as if that explains everything.

“As you said, I’m a posh git. Nice buildings hardly awe inspire me anymore.”

“How could I forget,” John grins as he starts to back away, cane tapping on the ground. “Goodbye Sherlock Holmes,” John says seriously, remembering their parting from the rehab centre.

“Goodbye John Watson.”

Sherlock can hear John chuckle as he walks in the opposite direction, back towards the clinic. Sherlock unfortunately knows that he better head back to the centre, if someone hasn’t already noticed that he’s missing, they will soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely a shorter chapter this time around, but I still hope you enjoy it nonetheless.  
> Also, considering John is a doctor and knows that Sherlock is in rehab, I can appreciate that some readers might have a problem with John engaging with Sherlock in any manner, but this story isn't going to be a John that's a rule follower - because I don't see him being one in many instances, so truly if that'll be a problem for you, sorry and maybe not the story for you.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not at all science-y in fact science was my most hated subject(s) in school so if I get anything wrong you're more than welcome to point that stuff out. Other than that, I hope you enjoy!


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